Something Like Home
by tarysande
Summary: Shepard's in lock-up, the Reapers are coming, and Garrus isn't going to sit idly by while the galaxy is lost. Garnering turian support means returning to Palaven, but returning to Palaven will involve answering questions—and facing stark realities—he's been avoiding for years. Written for the 2012 Mass Effect Big Bang.
1. Chapter 1

**Created for the 2012 Mass Effect Big Bang**

**Illustrations by the marvelous picchar (pic-charDOTdeviantartDOTcom)**

**(There's a version of this story with the images embedded over on AO3, should you so choose. Unfortunately fanfiction doesn't allow image embedding.)**

* * *

Shepard was gone.

"What do you mean, _gone_?" Garrus growled. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Where the hell is there for her _to_ go?"

In that calm voice he found mildly irritating even on the best of days—and this was not the best of days—EDI replied, "That information is classified, Officer Vakarian."

He grimaced at the glowing ball. "Don't you _Officer Vakarian_ me. Tell me where she went, EDI."

"That information is—"

"Yeah. Classified. So you've said. But when was the last time Shepard went out on a mission without me at her six?"

The AI was silent for a moment. "Although previous decisions indicate Shepard's reliance on you, Officer Vakarian, the current situation remains unchanged. She is not aboard the _Normandy_. All information regarding her current whereabouts and the nature of her mission are classified."

"By whose order?"

"Hers."

Inhaling sharply, he turned away from EDI's interface. Logically, he knew it didn't _matter_, that turning his back on her was only a symbol since _she_ wasn't actually contained in or constrained by the bobble of light behind him, and she wasn't going to care about his posture anyway, but it still felt petty.

"Logging you—"

"Wait," he said. "Wait, if she's off the ship, who'd she leave in charge? Lawson?"

"Negative, Officer Vakarian."

He waited for her to offer more information. She didn't.

It was probably a good thing EDI didn't possess a neck to wring. Because it would have taken every ounce of self-control he had to stop himself from doing it. "Who, then? It's not like there's a working chain of command here that makes any kind of damned sense."

"I have the ship, Officer Vakarian."

Garrus blinked and stiffened, betraying his complete and utter surprise. Then he forced himself to return to a neutral stance, even though he was alone—except for EDI—in the battery and no one could see him. And _she_ could probably calculate the level of his distress by taking stock of his vitals. "You've got to be kidding me. You can't _have_ the ship. You _are_ the ship."

He knew it should have been impossible for an AI—even an unshackled AI—to sound affronted, and yet it was the word that came to mind when EDI spoke. "I do not believe Shepard anticipates being away from the _Normandy _for any length of time. However, should she fail to return, she has left a very specific set of orders to see carried out."

"Orders like keeping things classified?"

"That is one parameter."

"Unbelievable."

He muttered the word to himself, half under his breath, but EDI replied, "Given the sensitivity of the mission, I believe she was making the most rational decision available to her. I have proven my loyalty, Officer Vakarian. Had I wished to steal the _Normandy_ or bring harm to her crew—"

"I'm not questioning your loyalty, EDI. Shepard's _sanity_, maybe."

"While the commander was understandably absorbed by last-minute preparations, at no point did I detect appreciable abnormalities in either her physical or psychological state."

Garrus closed his eyes briefly and sighed. "For someone who spends so much time with Joker, you could probably stand to take a crash course on recognizing humor, EDI."

"I will take that under advisement, Officer Vakarian." She paused. "Though perhaps Jeff is not the optimal role model. I am told he is not as funny as he thinks he is."

Garrus snorted, caught off-guard by EDI's admission. "Shepard?"

"It appears to be a universally held opinion amongst the crew."

He'd have laughed if he'd been any less irritated. And worried. "Okay, maybe the humor thing's not entirely beyond you."

"Shepard says it is good to have ambitions. Mine is to tell a joke that does not require further elucidation." She paused. He thought it was… strange, strange was a good word, that he could tell _when_ she was pausing and not just silent. "_That_ was a joke."

"You'd better keep working on it."

"Yes," she replied. "Your response was unsatisfactory."

"Not really in a laughing mood." Garrus paced from one side of the battery to the other. Instead of helping relieve the tension coiled in his gut, the too-narrow room only made him feel more constrained, trapped. "So that's it?" he said. "That's all you can give me? She left the ship and you don't know when she'll be back?"

He knew he was probably imagining it, but he thought he detected a faint undercurrent of admonishment in EDI's tone when she explained, "Shepard is highly trained, Officer Vakarian. Her service record was exemplary even before she assembled the crew of the first _Normandy_. She would not involve herself in a mission she felt incapable of completing. I can forward all pertinent, unclassified information to your personal account if you wish."

Garrus grimaced. "I am familiar with Shepard's record, EDI. I was C-Sec."

"I fail to perceive the relevance of your previous employment."

"Cop, EDI. Detective. She was hunting Saren, which was good enough for me, but only an idiot walks into a situation blind if he doesn't have to. If it's public knowledge, I read it. If it was… not so public knowledge but available to Citadel Security? I read that too. I just don't _like_ this. She works with a team. She's worked with a team as long as I've known her. It seems… out of character."

"On the contrary, her background as an infiltrator is ideal for solitary missions. Given your familiarity with her dossier—"

He interrupted her before she could regale him with the details of every one of Shepard's successful solo missions pre-SR-1. "Yes, yes. Message received. Shepard knows what she's doing and I should be a good turian and let her get on with it without daring to voice my concern. I don't suppose you'd tell me where this mission originated?"

"That information is—"

"Classified. "

"Yes, Officer Vakarian. Though… perhaps it is not classified to mention the message was sent over a Systems Alliance channel."

"Of course," he muttered. "Let me guess. Hackett? No, no, you don't have to compromise your orders by telling me, EDI. All the life-threatening Alliance missions Shepard's sent on come from him." He tried not to remember the last one. Alchera hadn't been life-threatening, but it had been the last time Shepard went planetside without backup. Without him. She'd come back with a handful of dog-tags, her old helmet, and ghosts in her eyes that no amount of talk or time had exorcised.

"I will neither confirm nor deny your conjecture, Officer Va—"

"EDI," he said. "All this Officer Vakarian business has me thinking I'll turn and find my dad glaring at me. Garrus'll do just fine."

"Garrus," EDI repeated. "The commander did not request I keep her return confidential. I will inform you when she is aboard."

This did make him chuckle. "Thanks, EDI," he said. "I appreciate the loophole. I guess that's all for now."

"Logging you out, Garrus."

He took his pacing to the hallways and told himself the extra space helped, when really, all it did was remind him of all the places she wasn't.

#

**_Message sent: 21 APR 86_**

_I'm giving you twenty-four hours, Shepard. Then I'm going to hack EDI or die trying. You're not the only one who can stage daring rescues, you know. If you go three full days without contacting the _Normandy_, I'm going to assume you need one. G._

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

**_Message sent: 21 APR 86_**

_Dammit, Shepard, where the hell are you?_

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

#

On the second day of her disappearance—her radio silence—he was forced to quit his restless pacing after a frazzled Joker verbally kicked him out of the cockpit and even usually-calm Krios emerged from Life Support to snap, "Stalking the hallways does not help matters, Vakarian. We are all concerned."

Leaving the crew deck and the troubled faces he didn't know how to soothe behind him, Garrus retreated to the elevator and hit the button for Shepard's loft. He told himself it was just a precaution to keep her pets from dying—she was inordinately fond of the rodent—but he feared the reality was more maudlin than he'd ever have admitted. To anyone. Ever. It had been a long time since two days had passed without seeing Shepard, and in the lull after the Omega-4 Relay, he'd grown a bit complacent in the strange sort of happiness they'd found in each other.

He wasn't entirely sure what to make of _that_, either. He didn't want to question, didn't want to push, but… he'd _blown off steam_ before. It was usually hot and fast and never quite as satisfying as he thought it would be. If he'd hesitated when Shepard first laid down the offer, it was because he didn't want _that_ kind of experience to somehow change or shift the most important relationship in his life. But it had… to say _exceeded expectations _wasn't strong enough. And in the end, it wasn't very much like his previous experiences of working off stress at all.

He'd almost expected her to turn him away when he'd opened his mouth and "I want something to go right. Just once. Just…" came out of his mouth. It was too much. The words—the words were bad enough, and then his damned voice had to take it that one step further, much to his chagrin. Hell, he'd almost walked out to save himself the mortification.

But then, she wasn't turian. Human voices didn't have subharmonics. They communicated with silent gestures and twitches of their eyebrows. It was entirely possible she didn't have the faintest idea what the subtle tones of his voice were saying.

And it was entirely possible she _did._

Because she didn't send him away. Not even close. And no bout of testing reach and flexibility in his past had ever entailed someone sleeping wrapped in his arms afterward. Or smiling at him in a way that made him feel like the luckiest damned turian in the galaxy, possible xenophile deviancy be damned. After the third time in as many days she called him up to her quarters she got a strange look on her face and said, "You… don't have to, you know. Come up here. If you don't want."

He blinked at her—a bit stupidly, if he was honest, because was there anyone who'd _turn down_ the opportunity to have Shepard's undivided attention?—ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, and admitted, "It's the best part of my day."

She smirked, but it wasn't enough to completely steal the shadows from her eyes or to break down that careful wall he knew she kept built high around her. Her smile remained a little guarded. "Oh, come on. Better than calibrating the Thanix?"

He let her have the deflection. "Fine. Second best."

"That's more like it," she replied, but then she kissed him with her nimble human lips and ran her even more nimble human fingers along the curve of his waist with _just_ enough pressure to send every nerve in his body screaming for more.

That time, afterward, with Shepard curled against him, her head resting on his shoulder and her arm flung heavily across him, she said, "You're… you don't have to wait for me to… I like seeing you. You, uh… you're welcome. Here, I mean. Whenever you want. You know. To use the shower. Or… visit the fish. Not just for… this."

And that time, as with so many times, he didn't know what to say. Some words he was good with. Cocky words. Smug words. Wisecracks and quips. Those he could do. But with her as vulnerable as he'd ever seen her, he found himself rendered mute by the terror of saying the wrong thing, the stupid thing. So he turned his head and touched his forehead to hers as tenderly as he knew how and the next evening he came to her quarters without waiting to be asked up.

That had been more than a week ago. Almost two weeks since their suicide mission where miraculously (or not—Shepard _was_ involved) no suicides occurred.

He should have known. He should have been _expecting it._ In all the time he'd known her, Shepard had never gone two weeks without trouble finding her somehow. He'd let his guard down, let himself believe they'd bought themselves some time when they'd taken the Collectors out. He'd been so pleased with the outcome of the little picture he'd forgotten the big one entirely. Somewhere his dad was shaking his head in mute disappointment. Garrus could hardly blame him. Some lessons were hammered home again and again for a reason and _keep your enemy in your sights at all times_ was a pretty significant one to have temporarily forgotten.

He had to tell himself—assure himself—Shepard would never have gone off fighting Reapers on her own. No matter who sent her classified intel over Alliance channels.

Standing outside the doors to her quarters, he heard music blaring within, and for a moment he let himself imagine it was all some misunderstanding. A horrible practical joke that would culminate in EDI saying, "Now you see I do have a sense of humor, Officer Vakarian," and Shepard laughing at him.

But when the door slid open, of course the room was empty. He _knew_ she left the music on all the time—he never asked the reason and she never offered one, but he suspected she found the noise soothing on some level. Perhaps the level that had experienced death in the silence of space, though he certainly wasn't going to be the one to raise _that_ topic of conversation. He just didn't remember the Shepard of before being so averse to quiet. He'd often come upon her sitting alone in the belly of the Mako, as silent a spot as could be found on the smaller, busier Alliance _Normandy_. But… but a lot of things had been different then. Maybe she _had_ kept strange, pulsating dance music blasting in her littler quarters on the old _Normandy_, too. He'd certainly never been in them to know.

He left the music on. For when she came back.

It was too late to save one of the sunfish, but the rest of Shepard's brood swarmed to the top of the tank, ravenous, when he pressed the feeder panel. Knowing Shepard, she'd probably forgotten to feed them before she left… to go wherever she'd gone. He ran the blunted tips of his talons lightly over the surface, trying and failing to banish the image of Shepard pressed between him and the glass, his hands holding hers above her head. She didn't look particularly concerned. Instead, with lips parted and cheeks flushed in that human way he'd come to find so captivating, she murmured, "Got you right where I want you, Vakarian," hooked a leg over his hip, tugged him close, and proved the truth of her words.

She was no amateur when it came to hand-to-hand either, after all.

He turned away from the fish tank, and the memories, and the pressing, gnawing seed of anxiety that wouldn't leave him in peace. No matter how many times he told himself she was _fine_, she'd be _fine_, she was _Shepard _and she'd glare and probably punch him if she knew how much he was worrying—"Don't tell me you're going to pull this protective bullshit _now_, Vakarian."—he couldn't shake the uneasiness. It was like an itch he couldn't scratch or a whispering voice whose words he couldn't make out, no matter how closely he listened.

He opened his mouth to beg EDI for more information, but stopped himself, shook his head, and turned toward the desk and its fuzzy resident.

The damned hamster, usually so terrified and timid, leapt from the cage in a squeaking fury when he attempted to give it some of the pellets he'd seen Shepard feed it with before. Garrus muttered a curse as he saw the tiny ball of fur dart under the desk. When he dropped to search, however, it was nowhere to be found. Pushing the chair aside, he edged deeper, his fringe bumping the underside of the desk.

Running his hands along the floor, searching out crevices or crannies he couldn't see, Garrus kept up a steady stream of turian invective in as soothing a voice as he could manage, trying to coax the little bastard from whatever devious hiding spot it had found. The hamster didn't reappear. It didn't so much as peep.

The door behind him whooshed open and in his haste to back out, he smacked the top of his head into the unyielding desk hard enough to see stars.

When the stars cleared, he saw Shepard.

Shock, relief, pain all combined in a heady rush of emotion, and he blurted, "Where the hell have you _been_?" before thinking better of the accusatory tone. "Thanks for the heads up, EDI."

"Shepard requested—"

"It's fine, EDI," Shepard interrupted. "I'll deal with it. You want to log yourself out for a bit? I'd… appreciate the privacy."

"Of course, Shepard."

Garrus put a hand to his head. The pain was ebbing, a dull counterpoint that did nothing to hide what he saw now that he was actually _looking_. The scent of smoke and sweat still clung to her, fresh, telling tales of battles he wasn't present for. Not dog-tags and a memorial on a silent, empty planet this time, then. Her hair had pulled loose from the tail she usually wore, and it hung in lank tendrils around a face more ragged and worn and pale than he'd seen in… than he'd _ever_ seen. Which was saying something. Something _bad._ More troubling than all that, though, was the heaviness in her posture, the faint hunch of her shoulders and the bend in her neck, as though she couldn't quite manage to keep her head upright.

Her eyes were bloodshot but still sharp, and they were looking at him in a way he'd never seen before: like she was expecting him to turn on her.

He definitely regretted his tone then.

"You're pissed," she said without preamble, "I get that. I'd be pissed too. But I just made a call that sent three hundred thousand batarians to their deaths, Garrus, so if it's all the same to you, I think I'd like to take a raincheck on this argument."

He blinked at her, hearing the words but not understanding them. Shepard only shook her head, flinging her helmet onto the bed. It bounced twice before crashing off the side and onto the floor. She didn't go pick it up. Instead, she began the familiar routine of unclasping her armor's seals. With none of her usual care, she dumped piece after piece on the little table near her couch. The clang and clatter was enough to return his voice to him. "What are you talking about, Shepard?"

Without facing him, she gestured toward the broad expanse of windows over her bed. He didn't have to see her face to know she was scowling. She didn't like the windows. When she didn't sleep on the couch, she slept on her stomach with a pillow over her head. "Really? View like this and you're the one who missed the show? I just sent an asteroid into the Alpha Relay."

Her words were cool, controlled, harboring just a touch of self-deprecating vitriol. The line of her back told a different story. He could see the strain of holding herself together hiding beneath the military bearing she still wore like armor even though her hardsuit was in pieces at her feet.

"Shepard…"

"You know what happens when you blow up a relay, Garrus? You pretty much snuff out the whole system. The whole _goddamned_ system. And it was the only damned thing I could do. You know that proverbial spot between rock and hard place?" He didn't, but her meaning wasn't hard to take. The tone of her voice told him what his translator could not. "Yeah. There. That's where he sent me. Some rescue mission." Still she kept her back to him, but her hands clenched into fists at her sides—clenched, unclenched, clenched again. "You know, after Mindoir, after Elysium? There's exactly no love lost between the batarians and me, but I still didn't want to—shit. _Shit._ Three hundred _thousand_ people. Three hundred _thousand._"

She twined her fingers together behind her tightly, pulling her shoulders back, lifting her chin. The dance music pounded incongruously in the background, and Garrus pretended not to notice the way her eyes were squeezed shut, or how her breath caught ever so slightly on the apex of every inhale. After a few moments, she exhaled sharply, releasing her hands and rolling her shoulders. "The Reapers are coming."

"Well, we knew—"

"No," she said, turning to face him at last. She scrubbed her fingers through her dirty hair before glancing down at her empty palms like she didn't know where they'd come from or what they were doing. He wanted to step closer, wanted to offer his hand or his shoulder or his arms, but her posture screamed _distance. _She could have put her hands on his chest and shoved and it wouldn't have said _leave me alone_ more clearly. "They're coming _soon._ You don't understand. If I hadn't… they'd be here _now._"

Garrus took this in, considered it, wondered briefly just what the _hell_ trouble Shepard had gotten herself into, and then said, "What do we do first? Please don't say 'appeal to the Council.'"

Whatever he was expecting—something along the lines of a rousing speech or a 'give 'em hell!' or even a _laugh_—it wasn't what he got. Shepard's face, usually so expressive—especially now that he'd had a chance to learn so much of the language her expressions spoke—closed. The peculiar set of pinched lines that only appeared when she was truly troubled or truly stressed furrowed her brow, and her blunt teeth pulled at her bottom lip. "I've got to give the Admiral a report—"

"Hackett," he half-muttered, half-growled.

Shepard almost looked like she was going to smile, but instead she just shrugged. "I don't think he had any idea what he was sending me into."

"Does he ever?"

She shrugged again, and he could tell just how damned worn out she was by the way she didn't either joke or defend. Usually it was one or the other, depending on her mood. Once or twice she'd muttered something about Hackett having it out for her, but even that had never been entirely serious. This was something altogether different. This time he did take a step closer, but he stopped when Shepard's shoulders stiffened. "Garrus, I—look, I've been thinking things over."

He forced his own hands to keep still at his sides, but he held his ground and didn't retreat. "Not sure I like the sound of that."

"I've been weighing my options since coming back through the Omega-4. To be fair, this mission just threw light on the whole thing. I don't know what kind of shitstorm I'm going to walk into after… all of this. Aratoht. Cerberus. Being… AWOL for two years—"

His mandibles flicked and tensed, but he managed to keep his voice relatively even as he interrupted, "Dead's a pretty good reason for being AWOL."

A third time she shrugged, and he found himself wanting to press his palms to her shoulders just to keep them still. Something about the indifference—no, the defeat—of the gesture bothered him deeply. It just… it wasn't Shepard. No more than taking off with no warning was Shepard, or tackling a mission solo was Shepard. Then again, Shepard did her damnedest to _save_ lives. Every single one she could, even when it was inconvenient as hell. He had no doubt three hundred thousand lost batarians were more than she could shrug off as a simple cost of war.

Three hundred thousand lives on her conscience. On second thought, knowing her as he did, he supposed it was lucky she wasn't straight-up losing it. No matter how necessary or unavoidable the sacrifice. A sudden Reaper invasion would've cost a hell of a lot more. He didn't doubt Shepard knew it. He didn't doubt Shepard was beating herself up about the losses anyway.

"Maybe. If they believe me. No guarantee, and it sure as hell looks bad from the outside. You must see that. But I need to get the Alliance to listen, and if that means turning myself in—turning the _Normandy_ over—standing in the HQ of Alliance Command and screaming at the top of my voice—"

"You think any of that'll work, Shepard? Sure as hell hasn't so far. Seems more likely they'll shut you up and shut you out and maybe just lock you up and throw away the key to keep you quiet."

"There are protocols. I'm still Alliance."

Trying and failing to keep the sharp bitterness from his tone he said, "Does the Alliance know that?"

Instead of another shrug, she lifted her chin. If the tone of the conversation had been any less serious, he might've smiled to see the hint of her usual defiance. "Doesn't matter. I know it. And it'll mean something if I hand over the _Normandy_, no strings attached_._"

"The Illusive Man'll love it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah. I'm sure he will. We'll just call his inevitable reaction a bonus. His mistake for thinking he could buy me in the first place."

He waited a moment before giving voice to the question hanging silently between them. "But? There's a definite 'but' here."

"_I'm_ Alliance. None of the rest of you are. This is between me and Alliance Command. I'm not dragging you into this."

"I _definitely_ don't like the sound of this."

He saw the muscles tighten and release as she clenched her teeth, but when she spoke her voice remained admirably calm. "This crew was assembled for a specific mission. That mission's complete. If it were any other tour, it'd be time to disband. Move on. You know the way the military works. That's the way these things go."

The knot of anxiety he'd been carrying around since her abrupt disappearance shifted very suddenly sideways into rage. "Bullshit. _Bullshit._" She didn't so much as flinch. Garrus wished she would, if only to prove she was listening, that she was taking him seriously. "You've got to be kidding. No _way_ I'm doing this again. I'm not getting some message from Anderson in few weeks telling me you've fallen off the grid, or that you've gotten yourself killed when I could've been at your back. Not after—no."

Eyes cool, too cool, she speared him with an even glare and said, "This is why the Alliance has regs."

Instead of dousing his rage, her chill only built it higher. "You think _that's_ what this is about? _Honestly_, Shepard? Bull. Shit. You go ahead and kick every damned person off this ship if that's the way you want to play it, but I go where you go. Into hell, remember? I made that promise a long time before anything your _regs_ might have frowned on happened. Don't you _dare._"

She tilted her head, giving him an inscrutable look. He thought maybe she was measuring him up. After a moment, she sank down onto the couch, leaning forward and propping her elbows on her knees. She gestured with her chin for him to sit next to her, and with the heavy dread of a prisoner awaiting sentencing, he reluctantly complied, the anger draining out of him as swiftly as it had risen, leaving him sad and tired. And a little too close to hopeless.

When she spoke, however, it wasn't to utter a verdict. She said, "Thanks for feeding my fish."

He stiffened slightly at the change of subject. Then, because she was Shepard and because she'd had to order the deaths of three hundred thousand batarians and because she looked too small hunched next to him on the couch out of her armor and out of her uniform, he gave her the reprieve. And followed it with an admission. "Yeah. Well. I… lost your hamster."

Shepard remained silent for a long minute, head bowed. She wasn't angry. Her tone was closer to resigned, and it troubled him the same way her defeated shrugs had troubled him. "Poor little guy. Thought he was too chicken to run. Always hiding in his little box and squeaking like he thought I was about to kill him. Maybe now he'll make it home like his namesake. Wherever home is, when you're a space hamster."

"His… namesake?"

She tilted a sad little smile in his direction. "Odysseus."

"That's a… hell of a name for a…"

"Rodent?" Shepard gave a breathy chuckle. "Yeah. Mostly I just call… called him Odie. I had a teacher who couldn't get enough of the old stories, and I guess it made more of an impression than I thought at the time. I liked the symbolism. You know it?"

Garrus shook his head. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but his grasp of human literature—human myths—was sketchy at best, and mostly confined to things Shepard had mentioned in the past. He didn't think Odysseus had been on that curriculum.

"Took him ten years to get home. Kept getting waylaid. Distracted. Nearly killed. But eventually he made it." She sighed. "Honestly, I always kind of wondered if he thought it was worth it. After all that time, after all those adventures, home probably seemed small. You can't really go back, can you?"

It wasn't the kind of question that needed an answer. Or wanted one, he thought.

"You can't come where I'm going," Shepard said softly, not looking at him, gazing instead at her open palms. He began to protest, but she spoke over him, a flinty edge to her words, the kind of tone that said arguing was pointless. It didn't matter. He wanted to argue anyway. "It's a different kind of hell, and I think it's the kind I've got to face on my own. And I want—" She stopped abruptly and shook her head. "No, that's not right. I'm not going to order you. Any of you. It's not my place. I don't want it to be." She shifted until her knee was touching his, and her torso was facing him. It was as close as she'd let herself get since she walked in the door, but instead of comforting, Garrus only found the contact distressing. It felt like a goodbye. He wanted to get up and walk away before she could say whatever she was about to say—before she said words she couldn't take back and he couldn't unhear.

Instead, he stayed on the couch and he let her wrap one of her smaller hands with its too-many fingers around his. "I trust you," she said simply. Effortlessly. Like they weren't some of the most important words she'd ever spoken to him. "And you've been… here. The whole time. You know everything. You've seen everything. If I can't be out rallying the forces—"

"But you _could_ be, Shepard," he interrupted. "No one's making you go back."

She shook her head. "What, take Jack's advice? Turn pirate? No one in the galaxy'll give me the time of day if I do that. And the galaxy has to start listening sometime. That's… I guess that's where you all come in. What the hell do I know about the Migrant Fleet or the Turian Hierarchy or the geth consensus? This crew's got connections to just about every major homeworld—and fleet—in the galaxy, and… look, _someone's_ got to start getting the word out. You said it yourself: the Council doesn't want to listen. Spectre status or no Spectre status. So it's not going to be them doing the preparations. We both know that. But I have a chance with the Alliance; they're the angle I've got. They're the only card I've got left to play, and we both know the deck's been stacked against us from the beginning. I just have to do things their way."

She inhaled deeply and released the breath on a slow, even exhale. Her fingers tightened around his, knuckles whitening under the strain. He hardly felt it. Because he knew what she _wouldn't_ ask, but what she was asking all the same. And he didn't have the first idea how to follow in her footsteps, how to do what she did. He'd tried it once, on Omega. It had ended with a lot of dead friends and a reprieve from crime so temporary it hardly registered at all in the scheme of things. Every time they went back to Omega the place was still swarming with Blue Suns and Eclipse and Blood Pack. Same as always. Trying to get the Turian Hierarchy to listen to rumors and hearsay and call it truth enough to rally the troops was going to be a million times harder than taking out a triumvirate of Omega gangs. Maybe Shepard didn't realize it, but he did.

Shepard continued, heedless of his inner war. "Whether he believes me or not, whether he agrees with the call I made or not, I'm pretty sure Hackett's hands are going to be tied here. They're going to want to bring me in. They're going to want some answers. If they don't believe me—if they think I went batshit crazy and blew up the Bahak system because of some old grudge, I'm screwed. But if they listen? Maybe we don't have to lose the entire galaxy in one fell swoop when the Reapers come. Maybe we'll be just a little bit prepared." She turned her head, eyes no longer cold. Their expression was still pushing him away, though. He knew that much. Even with her hand still wrapped around his. "And even if getting them to listen's a plan with a snowball's chance in hell? I gotta take it, Garrus. I _have_ to."

"I understand," he said. Because he did. He didn't like it. It made him want to put a fist through a wall or a bullet into… something, but he understood.

"I know," she replied. "And I'm… look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed—"

"Hey," he said, reaching for words and finding only the same old defense mechanisms. Some things never changed. "It's… it's not like this is forever. You know me. Always turning up when you least expect it. Stylishly and in time to save the day."

She sent him a weary smile, but at least it was a smile. "You're like a bad penny, Vakarian. But my favorite bad penny. And if they decide _not_ to court-martial my ass six ways from Sunday, you better believe you're the first one I look up."

He chuckled, even though his heart wasn't in it. Her words sounded too much like an ending. "Well. I am the best."

"Right," she said, playing the game with a half-hearted attempt at dryness, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "I'd be lost without you."

"Damn straight."

"Try not to be up to your neck in angry mercs this time."

_Try not to die this time,_ he didn't say.

He had to get the doc to patch up his hand later, much later, when he'd left Shepard writing her report for Hackett—so many words left unspoken between them—and retreated to the main battery. The damned wall had it coming. Chakwas didn't even admonish him for the blatant stupidity inherent in his actions. For a change.

He always suspected the doc understood a lot more than she ever let on.


	2. Chapter 2

Shepard was fond of sayings. Idioms, quotations, proverbs: she seemed to have a limitless supply. Something for every occasion. Most of the time Garrus had no idea what she was talking about. His translator tried its best to provide context, but even it was stymied when she called him a back seat driver (it was the Mako, he was sitting in the front next to her, and if he was desperately trying to give her pointers it was only because he was afraid for his life) or the first time she exclaimed something cost an arm and a leg (he'd been genuinely alarmed about human bartering practices until she explained that one. Laughing.)

He had a feeling he knew what words of wisdom she'd offer on this occasion, though. It was one saying he was familiar with.

You can't go home again.

But hell if he wasn't going to try.

With Shepard headed to humanity's homeworld—he tried not to imagine her bound, incarcerated, trapped; he hoped they hadn't insulted her, the Savior of the Citadel, with handcuffs or a prisoner's jumpsuit—and her words, his unspoken promise, ringing in his head, Garrus booked passage to Palaven. Home.

Something like home, anyway.

_#_

**_Message sent: 1 MAY 86_**

_Shepard, nothing on the vids and nothing on the 'net, but heard through a friend of a friend in C-Sec the Alliance has you in lock-up. On Earth? Charges pending? They letting you check messages? GV_

#

If Garrus had been on the _Normandy_, he'd have found a window—in the cockpit, if he could stand Joker's teasing; in the observation lounge; or even in Shepard's quarters—so he might observe the descent to Palaven. The turian transport he'd booked passage on had no viewing ports, and so, sandwiched between a family returning from a trip to the Citadel and a businessman or diplomat of some kind who'd never once looked up from his stack of datapads, Garrus tried to remember the way it had looked when he'd left so many years ago. The truth was, he'd been so anxious to leave he hadn't paid much attention. Instead of thinking the planet of his birth beautiful, he'd only turned his back and gazed forward, past Menae, to a future far from the tradition and stricture Palaven represented to him.

It was harder still to recall that boy who'd left—ready to take his place in C-Sec, ready to show his father exactly what he could accomplish, ready to exceed expectations. Out of spite, mostly. Garrus wouldn't wish him back again, but part of him mourned that brash youth, with all his hope and all his defiance. He didn't yet know about the miles and miles of red tape that could keep a guilty party from justice. He knew nothing of Collectors or Reapers or looking down the scope at the end of the galaxy as he—as anyone—knew it. He hadn't yet lost anything of importance, hadn't been betrayed, hadn't been left behind. Twice.

He'd been so young.

Garrus pushed away that line of thought and concentrated instead on feeling the subtle shift of the ship around him. He didn't have windows, but he knew when they began to climb down, he felt the shift as they entered the atmosphere, he knew when they changed to the more fine-tuned thrusters. The low thrum of the engines stopped when the docking arms took over, and there was no going back now. Palaven waited outside the still-closed hatch. Palaven, and his promise to Shepard, and, somewhere, his family.

He wasn't certain what he intended to do with any of it.

Garrus waited until the businessman—still reading—rose to his feet and began pushing toward the exit. He let the family, mother attempting to wrangle three children while the father dealt with luggage, depart ahead of him. Then, when the transport was clear, he gathered his own bag, the case of weaponry he hadn't been allowed to wear aboard, and he disembarked. He nodded at the pilot. The pilot didn't return the gesture.

For just a moment—the kind of moment he'd never admit to—Garrus missed Joker.

As soon as he stepped out of the airlock and into Cipritine's central arrival port, Garrus was assaulted by sensations both familiar and terribly, terribly different. The smells, the sights, the sounds—he remembered them all, but strangely, like they'd happened to some other person whose memories he just happened to be carrying around with him. It was nothing like the Citadel. It wasn't even like the predominantly turian _sectors_ of the Citadel. Everyone moved with precision. Awareness. It was like being part of a dance, where status and precedence were noted and obeyed without the necessity of words. He no longer knew exactly where he fit in.

The security Garrus saw carried updated weapons and wore updated combat suits, but the color of their uniforms was as he remembered, and their sharp eyes missed nothing. He remembered that too. He wondered how many security officers he couldn't see. He wondered, briefly, if any of them thought he might be a potential threat.

He sent a wry glance down toward the hole blasted in the armor he still wore—that he'd worn since Omega—and thought maybe it was time for an upgrade. Nothing said potential security issue like a turian in conspicuously damaged armor. Carrying a sniper rifle case. With a busted face.

None of the guards so much as blinked at him.

He saw one or two asari in the crowds, their blue skin standing out in vibrant contrast to all the muted tones of the turians around them, but everyone else was turian.

And yet somehow he still felt like the outsider.

Heaving his duffel over his shoulder, he took no more than three steps before he heard his own name and stopped in his tracks. He hadn't told anyone he was coming. Tilting his head, he tried to follow the direction of the sound. Maybe something about him had alerted security after all.

"Spirits, Garrus, what happened to your _face_?"

Before he could answer, almost before he recognized the voice as his sister's, Solana had emerged from the crowd and flung her arms around him. Funny, he thought, how virtually every race with arms had evolved some version of an embrace. He wondered if krogan hugged. Or if hanar entwined their long limbs. Then he decided he didn't want to know. A fleeting memory of the softness of Shepard's arms curled about him ghosted through his memory before he decided he didn't want to think about _that_ either.

He was raising his arms to reciprocate his sister's gesture when she stepped back suddenly and punched him hard. He winced, not because it hurt him with all his armor on, but because it had to have injured her hand. If it had, she showed no sign of it, and her amber eyes were fierce. With the hand she'd just used to hit him, she pointed at his injured cheek. "Well? Is _this_ the reason you wouldn't turn on your damned video chat? You think I only wanted to look at your pretty face? And why are you still wearing a hardsuit full of holes? Honestly. Armor's only as good as its structural integrity. You know that. You look like you've had a terrible lesson in the efficacy of armor." She tilted her head, staring hard at the scars until Garrus wanted to squirm out from under her gaze. Or possibly run right back onto the ship he'd just vacated. Then her expression changed, softened, and she reached up to run the tips of her talons tentatively along the ridge beneath his eye where his markings had been shredded by shrapnel and scar tissue.

"Gunship," he said. "I won. Mostly."

"I feel like this is a story I want to hear when I'm most of the way through a bottle of something strong and sweet with the kick of a krogan head-butt."

"At least it has a happy ending."

"Mostly," she echoed. Then, dropping her hand back down to her side, she said, "I can't believe you're here."

_Me either_, he didn't say. Somehow he didn't think that was what she wanted to hear. Instead, he gestured broadly, encompassing the port. "How did you—?"

"Please," she returned, mandibles twitching in something like amusement. If amusement came with a shrewd gaze that never left his. "Doesn't matter how small that transport was. The name _Garrus Vakarian_ shows up on a passenger manifest and you don't think Dad knew about it? You getting slow in your old age?"

Startled, Garrus stiffened and glanced around, looking for the familiar lines of his father's face—and doubtless the familiar disappointment in his eyes. Solana sighed. "He… was going to come. He was. But… it's been a bad day, Garrus."

"A bad—"

She shook her head, dipping her chin to glare at the ground. Around them, the crowds bustled, but no one came too close. A little pocket of space served as a buffer between them and the horde. He wondered what it was about them that screamed _private moment, keep away._ Must've been damned obvious. No one intruded. "He doesn't leave her when she has a bad day. Not even for you."

It had been so long since he'd been around other turians, it took a moment to recognize her weariness for what it was. Turians didn't have the same tells as humans, and Garrus was used to looking for signs of strain hidden on a stubborn human face. But Solana was clearly exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Perhaps she didn't have a human's dark circles under the eyes, but beneath the vivid blue of her markings, her plates were dull, and her movements just a little sluggish, a little too slow. Slow enough to mean the difference between life and death on a battlefield, and turians had to be damned worn out before that level of exhaustion set in.

"Sol…"

The good turian in her straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin in the same gesture of do-your-worst defiance he was so used to seeing on Shepard's face. He let himself wonder, just for a moment, if she was sporting a little of that defiance now, wherever she was. He hoped so. No matter what her motivation, she was a damned hero, and she deserved better than some Alliance brig and being treated like a criminal.

He'd sent a message. For the first few days, he'd checked his omni-tool every fifteen seconds, expecting to see some response. Nothing. Wherever she was, whatever the Alliance had done with her, either Shepard couldn't answer, or she wouldn't. And he had a mission here. He couldn't look to her for guidance. Not this time.

"You'll see for yourself," Solana said, pulling Garrus back to Palaven, and the present. To his sister. To her weary shoulders and the undercurrent of wretchedness in her voice. "Soon enough. Sorry. No one wishes I was giving better news than I do, trust me. It's just…"

Garrus peered at her, uncomprehending. "But I thought… what about the salarians? The clinical trial?"

Solana's mandibles twitched before pressing back flat to her face. It didn't matter how long he'd been away from daily interaction with his own people: Garrus still knew abject despair when he saw it. "Yeah. That… didn't work out."

Garrus reached out, but his sister flinched away from his attempt at comfort. He could hardly blame her, though the rejection stung. If things were already so bad… if… he just hadn't thought they were there yet. Not even close. Not with talks of treatments and tests and trials. Those were all hopeful words. Solana's posture was devoid of hope. "It's just… I thought… I heard she was going to get in."

Solana leveled a speculative glance his way, and he was reminded instantly of their childhood. No matter who he took in, Sol always saw right through him. More often than not she was a party to whatever petty crime or ill-advised joke he was involved in, but occasionally she was the one who told on him. Always, she said, for his own good. It was the latter expression she wore now, and he knew there was no hiding from her. "You heard that, did you? Funny. Not from me and not from Dad."

Garrus tried for nonchalance and was pretty sure he failed miserably. "I was C-Sec. I have sources."

"Sources in C-Sec who'd betray _Dad's_ confidences? I don't think so, big brother. I'm not your gullible shadow anymore. I don't know how you got that information, but it wasn't through C-Sec channels." She sighed, and he noticed the way she shook out the hand she'd used to punch him before closing it into a loose fist again at her side. "It hardly matters now, does it? We were all set to go—really excited and hopeful and everything—and the day before the transport was supposed to leave, she… took a turn. A really, really bad turn. And here we are. Just… waiting."

This time Solana was the one to reach out, and she uncurled her fingers to lay her hand lightly on his forearm. The gentleness of her touch made his stomach twist uncomfortably. "Look, Garrus, I… I have to warn you. She won't know who you are. Especially not on a bad day. You can't take it the wrong way. And you have to keep calm. As calm as you can. She gets stressed by our stress, so we try not to let her see it. Any little thing can set her off, and every time she gets upset, it gets a bit worse. We're… we're already running on borrowed time, the doctors say. So we don't want to hasten it along."

"Sol…" he repeated, holding onto her name because he didn't have the first idea what to say.

She shook her head. "We've had time to get used to it. It's going to be… I'm sorry. It's going to be a shock, and I can't even think how to prepare you."

He nodded, numb, without having the first idea how to prepare _himself_. "We should go, then. No… no use standing around in the middle of the port."

He saw a hint of the little sister he remembered when she tipped her head and gave him a brief smile. The expression disappeared almost as swiftly as he recognized it, though. "And Garrus… Spirits only know how Dad's going to be. He's had it worse than any of us, okay? Try to remember that. I have no idea where things stand with you, but it… look, it can't be like it was before. Not around Mom. Not now."

He was reminded of that brief comm conversation on Omega, the call he'd made when he thought it would be his last, the sound of his dad's voice in his ear bolstering him when he needed it most. _No matter how bad things are falling apart around you, as long as you have at least one bullet left, you can still get the job done. Understand?_ He'd looked through his scope then, and saw the N7 designation he felt certain was Shepard's, even though every rational thought in his head screamed the impossibility of it. He'd said he'd be home to sort things out. _I'll make it home when I can. _And then… he hadn't. He'd taken a rocket to the face. He'd signed on for Shepard's suicide mission without a second thought about the things he'd be leaving behind, the words left unspoken. He'd followed her into every hell except the one she barred him from, and now here he was. Like an afterthought. With more than one motive for finally returning in the first place.

"Don't worry, Solana," he said. "I'm capable of behaving myself. I am an adult."

"Are you?" she returned, with such a thrumming undercurrent of disapproval in her subharmonics it momentarily stunned him. "Sorry, Garrus. I… I didn't mean that."

But she had. She might take it back with words, but her subvocals had given voice to the truth of it. And looking at the weary line of her back as she turned and led him through the crowd, he almost thought he understood why.

#

**_Message sent: 6 MAY 86_**

_Hey, Shepard. Pretend I'm Chambers. You have messages at your private terminal. Go check them. And then hit 'reply.' GV_

_#_

Everything was the same. Everything was different.

Like his arrival on Palaven, Garrus was instantly overcome when he stepped into his family's house. His house, really, though it had been a very long time since he last thought of this place as _home._ Home has been his little apartment on the Citadel, for a while. Later it was the base he'd set up on Omega. Hell, home was the _Normandy_. This was a building he used to live in. And yet, the air held some indefinable scent—not food, not perfume, not any one thing—that spoke of childhood, older even than his memories of the youth who'd been so desperate to leave this place. It was games with his sister and his mother's arms and even learning—so frustratingly—to care for a weapon to his father's exacting standards. He hadn't realized how much he missed it until he smelled it now, warm and familiar as an embrace curling around him. He paused in the doorway, inhaling and exhaling slowly, until Solana cast a dubious glance over her shoulder that seemed to silently question his sanity.

Taking another step, the door swished shut behind him, and he had to swallow the completely incongruous sensation that he, too, was trapped now. Solana crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. "Do you need claxons to get your ass moving, G?" she said. "Because I could arrange that. There's a lot to be said for a Dad-approved security system."

He didn't have adequate words to explain himself, so he shook his head and mutely followed his sister inside.

The familiarity of the smell was hampered somewhat when he took the time to start looking closely at the rooms around him. They were much as he remembered—but a great deal had changed, too. He found himself falling back on his old detective's instincts, letting observation instead of sentiment take the lead.

What he saw distressed him. Several pieces of furniture—old and priceless and in the family for generations, if his father was to be believed—were missing. Garrus had always thought of them as terribly outdated, but not seeing them where he expected to was still a shock. The banners and standards representing various detachments of family military service still hung on the walls, but they'd been moved, spaced out to cover the empty walls where he remembered several pieces of artwork hanging. Also old. Also priceless. In fact, almost anything extraneous or decorative seemed to be missing. The Vakarians were an old family. They'd had time to collect any number of irreplaceable artifacts and heirlooms. Even his father's collection of ancient blades—his pride and joy—was missing, their spot on the wall now covered with a hanging that looked like it belonged until a second glance told Garrus it was new, and little better than a knock-off.

The entire estate had an air of neglect, and loss, and the desperate shabbiness of the formerly wealthy attempting to keep up appearances. It was masterfully done, he had to admit; he only noticed the changes because he knew what to look for, and because he was most definitely looking.

And because it used to be home. All the things his parents had admonished him for touching or playing with or almost-breaking were gone as if they'd never been.

"Solana," he said, trying to keep any hint of accusation from his tone. "I didn't—"

"Realize?" she interrupted, with yet more bitterness. The vitriol was as foreign as the tapestry where his father's blades had been, or the empty spaces where he remembered furniture standing. His sister wasn't _bitter_. She was stubborn and sweet and more mischievous than anyone ever gave her credit—or punished her—for. He could see nothing of the girl he remembered in the stiff lines of this woman's body, or in the glare she sent his way. "How _could_ you realize, Garrus? Oh, I understand you've been very busy and important with your top-secret missions you couldn't explain, apparently getting yourself half-killed if your armor and your face are telling the story I think they're telling, but no, you couldn't possibly _realize_ what was happening here. Because you never once _asked._ And even on those rare occasions when I _could_ contact you, you were, apparently, never actually _listening_."

"I had reasons…" he began, unable to keep the defensiveness from his tone. He wanted to lay them all out like weapons: Saren, Omega, Collectors, Reapers. But he couldn't.

When he'd thought it entirely likely he was going to die going through the Omega-4, he'd placed more weight, more importance, on hunting down Sidonis than on returning home a final time. Shepard would've done it for him, if he'd asked. Krios had gone to his son. Lawson to her sister. Taylor, poor bastard, learned the truth about his father, not that Garrus envied him that. Samara had ended a centuries-long hunt for her doomed daughter. It had been a regular _Normandy_-style family reunion, complete with krogan coming-of-age parties and just plain regular parties (the better to retrieve the grey boxes of dead lovers) and nothing-like-a-party near-exile for poor Tali who'd almost lost every connection to all the family she had in the process. Even the damned geth had been concerned about bringing its heretic brethren back to the fold, saving them from the Old Machines.

And Garrus had chosen revenge (_thwarted_ revenge) without a second thought.

_They were a kind of family. Betrayed by one of their own. And I should've protected them. I was what they had. I was who they looked up to._

With his sister's bright, sharp gaze on him, he couldn't give voice to the words. She'd looked up to him once too. Not so much, now.

Damn. Just him and Massani. Mercs bent on revenge at all costs.

No wonder Shepard hadn't wanted him to take the shot. No wonder she'd put the back of her head between his rifle and Sidonis. He just couldn't believe he was only realizing it _now_. Too damned late.

"I'm sorry, Sol."

_I'm sorry, Shepard._

"Of course you are. And of course you had reasons. You _always_ have reasons. You have always been very adept at justifying your actions. Better than anyone else I know. But while you've been out doing exactly as you pleased—just like _always_—I've been here playing dutiful daughter as my own hopes and ambitions vanished. Oh, and I've been watching our mother die. Slowly. Day after day after _day_. So you'll have to forgive me for not caring about all your precious _reasons._ Considering everything else? I just don't think they could be that important."

Faced with her rage, he felt the heat of his own prickle in his belly in response. Maybe it wasn't turian lives at stake _yet_, but he could still see that girl dying in the pod on the Collector ship, turning into paste. Stopping that was pretty damned important, since he was sure it wasn't just humans the Reapers would be after when they found their way back through the relays. "If you'd told me how serious it was, I'd've done something. Helped more. Sent _credits._"

Her bark of laughter was low and cynical. "Right. Because that armor of yours tells me exactly how much money you've got to spare. If you're upset because Mom's care is cutting into your inheritance—"

"Solana!" It was half shout and half growl and enough to make his sister shut up at last. A flicker of regret shifted across her face before she ducked her head to hide it.

"Sorry," she said. "I… Garrus… that was uncalled for. I'm sorry. I am."

He knew she was. He could hear it in her voice. He didn't yet entirely trust his own enough to answer.

Solana peered up at him. Her arms were still curled around her body, but more like she was holding herself together and less like open condemnation. "You left C-Sec _years_ ago. Quit. _Twice. _You have to know Dad got those reports too. I think Pallin wanted to gloat, if nothing else. Where have you _been_, Garrus?"

Saren, Omega, Collectors, Reapers. Shepard.

He released the rest of his anger on a weary sigh. "I promise I'll tell you the whole damned story, Sol. You and Dad both. I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere any time soon. And I just…"

"Yeah," Solana said. "You need to see her. I know. I… I didn't mean to get into any of this now. It's just been hard. It's been really hard."

He smelled the change before he saw it. The air lost its warm, familiar scent and was replaced with the bitterness of antiseptic and medicine. And illness. It wasn't rot or gangrene or blood—not battle wounds. Nothing so simple. It was something deeper, more insidious. Somehow it smelled worse. Wrong.

Wrong enough that he didn't want to open the door. Solana did it for him, but he saw even her hand hesitate, and she wasn't going in blind.

The room had belonged to both his parents once, but now it was clearly dominated by his mother's needs. Garrus saw nothing familiar. Old furniture had been removed—sold?—to make way for medical equipment. A cot, almost invisible against the silver and white of the machinery, was pushed up against the far wall. It was made with military precision, blankets pulled tight. Pride of place belonged to the bed—cold, metallic, tethered to a dozen machines with cords and wires—upon which his mother sat.

He knew it was his mother because Solana had told him, had prepared him. If he'd seen her somewhere else—a nameless face in a hospital ward—he wouldn't have known her. He might have walked right past and spared only a moment's pity for the family dealing with such a crippling disease.

The thought chilled him in way not even the medical equipment or the stench of illness could.

Garrus saw his father then, seated next to the bed, one hand curled protectively around the too-thin fingers of the skeleton hooked up to the machinery. His appearance was almost as startling a change, because it was more subtle. He was still big, still tall. Garrus had no doubt when he rose to his full height he was still imposing enough to bring instant silence to a room. But age clung to him now, and sadness. He looked like all the fight had gone out of him. Kaius Vakarian, defeated by an evil he couldn't right, a criminal he couldn't apprehend. Garrus heard his own breath catch, and it was enough to break the stillness of the tableau in front of him. His father looked up, and his mother turned her head (slowly, too slowly, as if it took an incomprehensible amount of effort). Her mandibles flared and her eyes, amber like Solana's, fixed on him.

"Garrus, my sweet boy," she said. Her voice, too, was nearly unrecognizable. The warmth and life had been leeched from it, leaving a dry rasp and almost undetectable subharmonics. "I've been waiting ages for you to come. But whatever have you done to your _face_?"

Beside him, he felt Solana stiffen suddenly, violently. Like she'd been shot by a bullet she couldn't have anticipated. She didn't utter a sound. She simply turned on one heel and strode out again, the ferocity of her movement betrayed only by the soft swish of her clothing.

His mother's gaze didn't falter. If she noticed Solana's abrupt departure, she said nothing, merely lifting her other hand to pat at her bedside. The weight of her fingers wasn't enough even to stir the fabric. Garrus glanced back over his shoulder, retracing his sister's path with his eyes.

"Let her go," his father said softly. The tone startled Garrus more than the words. His father sounded old, and his subvocals hummed with deep sorrow. Too deep to mask. Too deep to hide. And Garrus knew it was emotion his father would usually have hid. From him, certainly. From everyone. "She'll need some time."

Before Garrus could answer, his mother sighed. "You too, Kaius. You'll only hover."

Garrus didn't miss the way his father's expression brightened at her use of his name, but he still protested, "Niva…"

She was weak and she was wasting away, but the look she sent his father's way was fond. And familiar. Familiar enough Garrus couldn't pretend the woman dying in this transplanted hospital room was anyone but his mom. "Give me a moment with my long-lost son. I promise to stay right here the whole time. Follow that woman. She seemed troubled. Not on my account, I hope. I'm feeling quite well today, all things considered."

"That woman?" Garrus echoed, before he could think better of it. "That was Solana, Mom."

Garrus saw his father's warning look too late. But his mother only gave her head a mild shake and said, "Oh no, dear one. Sol's at work. I only wish she didn't have to be so far away. My little inventor. Always so clever."

He wasn't foolish enough to risk his father's ire by asking the questions that rose and begged to be voiced. Instead, he moved to his mother's bedside, seating himself in the chair his father reluctantly vacated, taking her hand in his before his father's heat left it.

"Inventor and investigator," she said. "What a pair you two always made." She waited until the door closed again, leaving them alone, before she added, "Though I gather from things I'm meant not to hear that you _aren't_ investigating anymore, dear one."

_No more than Solana's working in some lab, spinning miracles out of her imagination,_ he thought. "Not with C-Sec, anyway," he said. "I've been working with a Spectre. A human Spectre."

She squeezed his hand faintly. "A human Spectre, he says, as if they're commonplace. Oh, the _tantrum_ your father threw when he heard." A troubled expression darkened her face. "Though I thought—"

"Yeah," Garrus said. "Rumors of her demise were… well. Accurate. But not permanent."

She nodded, as if this made sense. "And what is she like, your human Spectre?"

"She's…" _Fearless, but not stupid. Brave, but not foolhardy. Compassionate, but not blind. Fierce. Inspiring. Wry. Hell, she's the best person I've ever known._ "She's Shepard."

"Ahh. I see."

He thought maybe she did. A moment later her other hand snaked out, wrapping itself around a handle with a button affixed. She closed her eyes as she pressed down on it. "Painkillers?" he asked. "Can I do anything?"

"No, no," she said, eyes still closed, breath hitched and a little too shallow. "It will work in a moment. It will start to steal this clarity, though. I'm sorry for that. Talk to me, dear one, while I still know who you are. You didn't answer my question."

"About Shepard?"

She wheezed a chuckle. "No, though perhaps the stories are connected. You didn't tell me what happened to your face."

He put his free hand up, tips of his talons resting lightly against the scar tissue. The last thing Chakwas had done before he left (and after she patched up the hand he'd busted fighting walls) was remove the bandages. He hadn't so much as looked in a mirror since. "Got myself in some trouble."

She smiled at him, but he could already see the edges blurring as the medicine did its work. Her eyes seemed less sharp, less focused. "What else is new?"

He laughed because he knew she wanted him to, but his chest was tight. He felt a little like some invisible opponent had him in a chokehold, and he had no idea how to break himself free of it. "Shepard got me out of it. Well, most of me." He bowed his head. "You'd like her. Dad wouldn't."

With a rueful tilt of her head she said, "Your father's not nearly as difficult as you think he is, Garrus. He can almost always be made to see reason."

"Almost always."

"You will never be able to convince him valara fruit has any place in his diet. Everything else is up for debate."

"Right. So he'll be all right with me throwing over my career to follow at the heels of a Spectre. A _human_ Spectre. The very human Spectre he apparently went into a rage over. Good to know."

She watched him closely, her gaze unblinking. After too long a pause, she said, "Is it important? What you're doing. Is it vital? You needn't answer. I can see it written plain on your face. He'll understand eventually. I've known him longer and better than you. You'll have to trust I understand this much about him."

Garrus grimaced.

"He's not who he was any more than you are who you were."

"Maybe you're right."

She extricated her fingers so she could slap him lightly on the back of the hand. "None of that. Of course I'm right. I'm your mother. I'm always right."

"Uh-huh. Always right. Like that time you poisoned Adrien Victus because you didn't realize he was allergic to skota? Or the time you took Sol and I to camp a week early and left us for six hours alone in the wilderness before you realized what happened? Or, oh, that time you blew up your office. That was a good one. We were finding the pieces of shrapnel that had been your work terminal for _months_ afterward."

"Garrus Vakarian, that is quite enough out of you." Still, she was smiling. And that was enough. For now, that was enough. He took her hand again and brought it to his cheek, nuzzling it lightly, carefully. Her bones felt too delicate, as though a fraction too much pressure might shatter them. His recently injured hand ached with sympathy.

"I'm glad you came, Garrus," his mother said, words heavy with more meaning than they had any right to. "It's almost time, after all."

"Mom…"

"I should rest. Your father will worry." Her laugh was hardly more than a whisper of breath. "He was always good at that. Though he does love to cover over his feelings with gruffness. He's very good at that too."

"I… I'm sorry. For not—"

Her mandibles twitched in amusement. It was the same ghost of a smile she'd always smiled when he was young and stupid and got caught doing something he oughtn't, and she was entertained but knew she shouldn't show it. "You've been living your life instead of his. That was all I ever wanted for you, my sweet boy. Don't apologize for it. I'm glad. I've missed you, but I'm glad." She sighed, and closed her eyes. A moment later her hand closed around the medication button again, depressing it for another hit of painkillers. "Try to remember that if I don't know who you are the next time I see you."

The emotion that had him in a chokehold flipped him, dropped him, and crushed the breath out of him in a sudden gasp. His mother only squeezed his fingers again, her palm too cool in his.

"It comes and it goes. I know that now even if I won't know it then. Be brave, dear one. Be strong. They'll need you more than I will. Remember that, won't you?"

She laid her head back against the white, white pillow, and was asleep before he could find voice enough to answer.

#

**_Message sent: 8 MAY 86_**

_If you bastards are reading her mail, you should know she's a damned hero. You'd better be treating her like one. She's done more for this galaxy than the rest of you put together. You haven't seen what those monsters do. I have. She's trying to save your hides. Listen to her. You owe her that much._

_Shepard, if you are reading this, don't let it go to your head. Aren't you always trying to tell me cockiness isn't attractive? (You're wrong. Look at me.) Answer your mail. Tell me what prison food is like. Probably still better than Gardner's. GV_

#

Some things never changed.

He found Solana in the enclosed garden. Alone. Huddled on the bench half-hidden behind the sweeping fans of fragrant flowers that grew rampant up trellises too fragile to adequately contain them. The garden had never been particularly well-manicured, but it had been left to grow even more wild in his absence. And, he suspected, mostly because of his mother's illness. She'd always enjoyed the garden; said she got her best ideas when she was pulling weeds. Now it was a veritable corner of jungle. The protective dome above cast everything in an eerie light too golden to be quite natural. Solana was bent at the waist, glaring at the ground between her feet as though it had caused her some harm, shoulders curled forward protectively.

"I'm fine, Dad," she said, without looking up. "I don't want to talk."

"It's me," Garrus said. "You're not fine. And if you don't want to be found, you shouldn't hide in the first place anyone who knows you will look."

"I don't always—" she stopped mid-sentence and shook her head, still not looking at him. "How come you're the one who's figured that out when no one else has? Dad always goes puttering around the workroom. Mom used to look in the _kitchen_. As if I would _ever_ voluntarily go _there_."

He shrugged, taking a step toward her. Only one. Then he waited. After a very long pause, she reached out and patted the bench beside her. "You'd be in the back, tinkering with whatever hopeless lost cause of a vehicle you'd salvaged," she said.

"You know I love a hopeless lost cause."

"Take your pick. We've got any number to choose from here."

_More than you know,_ he thought, settling himself next to her and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The creak of his hardsuit made her glance at him, and for half a moment, meeting her gaze, he understood the smallest fraction of the pain she was in.

"Sometimes she looks right at me and asks where Solana is. Sometimes she even says I remind her of her daughter. Not as clever, though. Never as clever." Solana plucked listlessly at one of the flowers dangling from the trellis, tearing the petals to shreds. "No one's as clever as the Solana who lives in her head. She hasn't recognized me in two months. Not once. Not even on the good days." She dropped the dead flower and reached for another. This one she raised to smell. "And in you stroll after being gone for _years_, and it's instant recognition and 'Garrus, my sweet boy'?" She sighed and straightened, leaning back. "I haven't seen her that animated and happy in months, so I can't even be mad."

"You can be a bit mad. If you want. I can take it."

Even her laugh sounded weary, but at least it was a laugh. "Fine. It's selfish as hell, but I'm a little bit mad." But instead of hitting him, she only edged a little closer, closing the last foot of space between them, leaning against his side. "Don't think it means I'm less mad or anything, but I missed you."

He draped one arm around her shoulders and was relieved when this time she didn't flinch away. "I missed you too, Sol."

"Enough to tell me what all the secrecy was about in that last chat? It was kind of heavy. Even for you. I almost thought… well. Let's just say Dad wasn't the only one glad to see your name show up on that passenger manifest."

Garrus thought about deflecting, about lying. And then he didn't. They'd passed that point. Hiding information now was just another way of handing down a Reaper death sentence. He wasn't going to do that to anyone. Let alone his baby sister. "I was headed through the Omega-4 Relay on a Cerberus-funded mission to blow a Collector base out of the sky."

Solana huffed. He had the distinct feeling that if he wasn't in armor she'd have driven a hard elbow into his side to punish him. "You don't have to be an ass about it. Just say you don't want to tell me."

On a sigh, he said, "If you don't believe me, I'm going to have a hell of a time convincing the Hierarchy they need to make themselves ready for war."

"With… the Collectors?" Solana gazed up at him, her face a picture of complete and utter disbelief. "The Collectors are a scary story moms tell their kids to keep them from misbehaving, G. You know, like _our_ mom told _us_. Not that it stopped the misbehaving. They're not real."

"They're real," Garrus said, squeezing her shoulders as if a squeeze could keep her safe from the horrors he'd seen. Paralysis. Pods. Paste. "And they're not the biggest threat. They're pawns of the Reapers, and the Reapers are coming."

She didn't say anything. She didn't blink. Garrus considered it something of a victory that she didn't immediately run screaming from the garden.

Finally, she said, "Just how much damage did that gunship do to your head? I mean, beside the obvious cosmetic stuff."

"I'm not crazy, Solana." Her expression begged to differ. "You know I was part of the team that brought down Saren Arterius. Saren, too, was a pawn. A powerful one, but under the control of—"

"The _geth_," Solana interjected. "This is Palaven, Garrus, not some backwater on the edge of the Terminus. We get newsvids. They all pinned the geth, and that huge ship of theirs."

"Right. And newsvids always tell the absolute truth. That huge ship was a Reaper called Sovereign," Garrus insisted. "And that Reaper was a vanguard. One of _many_, just waiting to return from Dark Space and harvest us all. All organic life. It's their mission. They do it every fifty thousand years. They harvested the Protheans; they'll come for us too. Hell, I don't know if anything we can do will stop them, but it's up to us to decide if they take us unprepared, or if we meet them with guns blazing."

Solana shook her head and slipped out from under his arm, stalking to the other side of the little garden. Scuffing her foot in the gravel, she sent a spray of tiny stones into a bed of flowers too delicate to withstand the onslaught. "Damn it, Garrus. It sounds too crazy to be made up."

"You don't know the half of it, Sol. But crazy doesn't make it any less true."

"But… Collectors? Reapers?" She turned back to face him, and he saw the faintest hint of belief playing around her eyes. "Were you really working with _Cerberus_?"

"Yes," Garrus admitted. "And no. I was working with Shepard. And Shepard was working with Cerberus. Mostly against her will. Certainly against her politics. But there were lives to save, and Cerberus was the only one offering the resources she needed in order to save them."

"Shepard. The human Spectre, Shepard? Don't tell me the newsvids got that wrong too? I thought she—"

"Typical Spectre behavior," muttered a new voice, and Garrus turned to see his father leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. _Yeah,_ he thought, _still imposing._ He had no idea how long he'd been there but, if the stony expression on his face was anything to go by, long enough. "Any means to justify an end, even if it involves consorting with known terrorists. After faking her own death."

Pointedly, Garrus turned his attention back to his sister, replying, "Shepard the Spectre, yes. Her humanity wasn't—and shouldn't be—the material point. You know I worked with her before. She assured me she hadn't turned terrorist, and I believed her. Plus, she pulled my ass out of a particularly bad fire. I owed her one. Mom always taught us to pay our debts."

If he heard the dig, his father ignored it. "Of course her humanity is the point, son. Cerberus looks out for human interests, and they don't care who they step on along the way. They wouldn't have funded a turian Spectre."

It took a great deal of effort, but Garrus managed to inhale and exhale slowly—slowly enough to push back some of the frustration, at least—before answering, "Turian gunnery chief. Salarian doctor. Asari Justicar. Krogan. Drell. Maybe we didn't have an elcor pilot or a hanar cook, but Shepard forced any number of aliens onto Cerberus' payroll. And she never gave the Illusive Man a single damned thing he wanted."

"So you say," his father said. The sorrow was still evident in the thrum of his subvocals, mixed now with calm. And a kind of regret. Garrus, half-expecting anger or frustration to mirror his own, only stiffened, his mandibles twitching in confusion. "But men like Cerberus' Illusive Man often find ways of taking what was never on offer. It is how they've risen. I would not discount him. You may have given him more than you think."

The worst part was how certain Garrus was that his father was right. So many traps and setups and so-called coincidences. And the Illusive Man had to have known what he was getting himself into, bringing Shepard back—Shepard, who'd never spared a single sympathetic thought for Cerberus. Not once. She wasn't exactly prime recruitment material, hero of humanity or not.

Knowing her as he did—as he _had to_, with the Lazarus Project being what it was—how many steps of Shepard's had the Illusive Man anticipated? How many had he used to his advantage?

Garrus shuddered, and not because the garden was in any way cold.

Solana broke the silence by taking a couple of swift steps toward the door. "I'll go. She might have an episode."

"An episode?" Garrus asked. "She was sleeping when I left her."

His father pushed himself away from the wall and waved Solana back into the garden. "I'll watch over her. She shouldn't be alone. And you two no doubt have things to discuss."

"Dad—" Garrus began.

"Later, son. Time enough for all that later."

Without another word, he vanished back into the house. Garrus looked at his sister. Solana shrugged.

"Sol?" he asked. "Why does she think you're some hotshot inventor?"

Her shoulders dipped and she sighed. "I was, for a while. Or I was going to be. Before she really got sick. I was… a lot of things changed. I guess she—or whatever the disease did to her—didn't keep up." She grimaced at him. "Don't give me that look, Garrus Vakarian. I need your pity like a pyjak needs wings."

He snorted an abrupt laugh. "I think pyjaks might _like_ wings, though. Think of the trouble they could get into."

"Shut up. It's a saying."

"It's a _terrible_ saying. I think you just made it up."

"I… you're right. I did just make it up. And it is terrible. It's been a long day."

"Hell, Sol. It's not even half over."

She glowered at him. "Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"

Garrus raised his hands in silent surrender.

"So," she said, nudging his foot with hers and offering her arm to help him up. "You want to go find the bottom of a bottle of something strong and sweet with the kick of a krogan headbutt? You tell me about that gunship and I'll tell you about the dream job that wasn't?"

"Might need more than one bottle."

"Luckily I know where Dad keeps the good stuff." She paused. "I have to ask. Is that actually an M-29 Incisor you brought with you?" Garrus grinned and Solana hummed a low note of appreciation. "Damn. I've read about them. Haven't seen one."

"You should see the mods I've got on it. Not in love with the three-round bursts, though. Waste when you're good enough to take the headshot in one. Still wish Shepard would let me have a crack at her Widow—"

"_What?_ Your human Spectre's got an M-98? To hell with gunships, you've got to tell me all about that _gun_."

"Girls and their toys," Garrus mused, ducking out of the path of his sister's weak punch. "If you're nice maybe I'll even let you see how the Incisor handles."

She snorted. "I'm always nice."

Some things never changed. The world might be turned upside down in any number of other ways, but at least he had that.

#

**_Message sent: 10 MAY 86_**

_I don't understand why there's no information. I'm not without resources, but I look you up and there's nothing. A Shepard-shaped information void._

_Let me know you're okay, Shepard. You know I don't like radio silence. ("Yeah," I hear you saying, in that tone of yours. You know the tone. "It's why you never shut up over the comms in a firefight. I get it, Garrus. You scoped. You dropped. Let the rest of us shoot these damned husks in peace.") GV._

**_Message received: 10 MAY 86_**

_You were right on the first guess, Officer Vakarian. Nothing gets in to her, nothing gets out. For what it's worth, though, I'm the bastard reading her mail. And keeping an eye on her. She's restless, and frustrated, and the brass isn't listening. Worse. They keep promising they _will_ listen, while taking exactly no steps to do so. Batarian Hegemony's breathing down their necks and they're trying to keep things from escalating. Politics. You know how it is. No idea how long they'll drag this out. If what Shepard says is true—and I don't doubt her—I don't think we have time to beat around the bush, do we? _

_David Anderson_

**_Message sent: 10 MAY 86_**

_With all due respect, sir, politics can—to borrow a phrase from Shepard—hang. GV_

**_Message received: 11 MAY 86_**

_Seconded, Vakarian. Though I think I'd've chosen something a little more strongly worded. Involving profanity. Perhaps even copious amounts. Toured the ship today. She's in good shape. Seems her creators spared no expense. So of course Command's going to pull her to pieces and rebuild her to their specs. DA_

**_Message sent: 11 MAY 86_**

_Don't let them touch the Thanix. You have no idea how much time and effort I put into getting that thing calibrated perfectly. GV_

**_Message received: 11 MAY 86_**

_Too late, I'm afraid. DA_

**_Message sent: 11 MAY 86_**

_Bastards. GV_

**_Message received: 12 MAY 86_**

_I'll find a way to let them know how you feel. DA_

**_Message sent: 12 MAY 86_**

_Feel free to use the profanity you mentioned earlier, sir. GV_

_#_

Garrus liked routine. He _appreciated_ routine. It was, he admitted—if only to himself—one of the many things he'd inherited from his father. He enjoyed making order out of chaos. Shepard teased him about his endless calibrations, but there was something to be said for knowing the way a thing worked _so well_ you could coax more out of it than anyone could've anticipated. Sure, he sometimes let rules slide (or, fine, broke them, when necessary), but only because he knew the rules in the first place. He'd never been one to walk into a situation blind, not when he could help it. Sidestepping the order of things could only happen when that order was established in black and white, and when one could anticipate the repercussions of one's actions. When he'd first met Shepard, he'd cared less who got caught in the crossfire—even now, he remembered the absolute reproof in her tone at practically their first meeting, when she'd given him hell for taking a shot with a civilian's life on the line. Serving with Shepard had taught him a lot about repercussions. Omega had taught him more.

It was impossible to carve out a routine when everything revolved around the constantly-shifting state of his mother's health. Days, weeks, a month, slipped away as they waited—as Shepard would say—for the other shoe to drop. ("From where?" he'd asked Shepard. "Hell if I know," she replied, "somewhere bad. Other shoes dropping is something no one wants to see happen.")

Even as he scrambled to learn medical terminology or understand the baffling array of machinery his mother was hooked up to, things changed. Black became white. White shifted sideways into grey. What was grey the day before became black again overnight. And then white by morning. As soon as he understood one thing, some new problem jumped up to fill its place, more often than not completely disrupting all the things he'd thought he understood up to that point.

Corpalis Syndrome didn't have a routine. One thing did not follow another. It was brutally unpredictable, in everything except the distress it caused. Garrus learned this the hard way, thrown into a situation where stumbling through blind was his only option. It was one thing to read about the progression of the disease—and he had, of course he had. When Solana'd first told him, he'd devoured all the horrible, clinical details, spelled out in language that made it anything but personal.

It was another thing entirely to witness it firsthand, and to see how much the disease had stolen from his mother. His strong, brave, kind mother, who'd once been a better shot with a sniper rifle even than his father. Who'd had a temper no one wanted to be on the wrong side of, because it only came out when it was truly warranted. Who'd taught him everything she knew about hacking systems. Who, instead of punishing him when she caught him taking things apart, had instead patiently showed him how to do it properly, and to rebuild with finesse. Usually with superior modifications.

His clever, sharp, unflinching mother.

It was so damned unfair it ached.

She didn't recognize him again. Whatever barrier his arrival had broken was dammed up again the next day, when he went to see her. Sometimes she thought he was a doctor, sometimes a friend of her husband's. Sometimes she gazed, aghast, at his face, and closed her eyes until he left. Sometimes—the worst times—she stared past him, unblinking and uncomprehending, her mandibles hanging unnaturally slack, recognizing no one and nothing at all.

He met a different woman every time he walked into his mother's room, none of them familiar, none of them bearing more than a passing resemblance to the one he remembered. Sometimes she was angry; often she was sad. Sometimes these emotions got jumbled together, mixed with a dose of frustration, and the result was hysteria or rage or, once, a bout of laughter so broken and far from amusement Garrus had to leave the room to escape its eerie wrongness. He learned she was confined to her bed because the neurological degeneration had eaten away at vital nerves and left destruction in its wake, stealing her mobility. Sometimes, during her episodes of confusion, she tried to lever herself from the safety of her bed, and then keened in angry misery when she was stopped and strapped into place. Garrus watched in numb horror as she hissed and spat and cursed, and his father silently braved the onslaught, securing his wife's limbs so she wouldn't do herself yet more harm.

After one such episode, when his mother was sedated and Solana was sitting in the sickroom, Garrus found his father in his study, standing behind his desk as though he wanted to sit, but could think of no meaningful reason to do so. Like Solana hiding in the garden, Garrus knew where his dad retreated: work. But without work to be done, he merely looked lost. Defeated.

"She'd have done the same for me, if our roles were reversed," his father said quietly. The quaver in his subvocals and the stiffness in his shoulders belied the steadiness of the words. Garrus couldn't pretend not to see the pain in his father's eyes. Or the hopelessness. The hopelessness was worse. "The disease attacked her nerves, but that's… it's not the whole reason. She hit her head. That's why she has to be restrained. It's why one of us stays with her now. She fell trying to stand up, hit her head against the table, and Sol found her in a pool of blood. Superficial, we thought. But that was when she had the last scan. Just before we were meant to go to the salarians. She's got a handful of aneurysms, each a bomb waiting to go off."

Garrus shook his head, hearing the words but refusing to understand them. They weren't black and white or even grey. They were blue as blood, and they weren't part of anything he'd ever read. "That's—that's not a symptom."

"Not of the Corpalis, no. Their best guess—and that's all they have, guesses; it's all they ever have—is the last batch of treatments had a negative side-effect, weakening the artery walls. Might've been an interaction with one of the earlier attempts. Now she's got a network of grenades under her skull, and there's nothing they can do."

"There's got to be surgery. Let me make some calls. I know a—"

"Even if she survived the anesthesia, they could never fix it all, son. They might fix one or two, but not without setting off a chain reaction. I shouted. I swore. I threatened. Fedorian sent his own damned doctors. A whole team. And if the primarch's physicians say nothing can be done? All the shouting in the galaxy won't change it."

Garrus pretended not to notice the way his father's hands trembled as they reached for the back of the chair and gripped, hard. Garrus knew that grip. Like his dad wanted to put his fist into a wall. Or a bullet into… something.

Maybe he'd inherited _that_ too.

"The slightest spike in pressure could do it. If she can't leave her bed, she can't leave the planet. So we _wait_." He growled the last word like an expletive before looking up to meet Garrus' gaze once again, his eyes hollow. Haunted. "'Nothing more we can do. Make her comfortable.' What's to be done with words like those?"

Before Garrus could say anything—and what could he say? He knew very well there was nothing that could be said—his father pushed the chair at the desk and straightened. The movement was jerky, like he was being pulled by invisible strings, but Garrus heard the message loud and clear: conversation over, moment of vulnerability to be ignored. Don't so much as think of mentioning this again.

Still, as his dad turned his back on him and stalked out of the room, Garrus wished for words of his own. The right words. The kind of words that might make things better instead of worse.

He was out of his element, though, and he knew it. No quips or witticisms could ease the pain of a mother—a wife—dying of a disease with no cure, whose previous treatments had only hastened the inevitable. Worse. They'd stolen the best chance at recovery out from under her.

So, like his father, Garrus was left only with the feeling of wanting to put a fist through a wall, and the restraint necessary to not do so.

Cold comfort, indeed.

#

**_Message sent: 01 JUN 86_**

_Tell me the Council's not actually considering the demands of the Hegemony. Getting weird reports on the vids out here. She's never mentioned by name, but I know why the batarians are pissed off. You'd tell me if I needed to stage a rescue, right? GV_

**_Message received: 01 JUN 86_**

_The Council's doing what the Council does best. Take that as you will. DA_

**_Message sent: 01 JUN 86_**

_Oh, please tell me someone used air quotes. GV_

**_Message received: 01 JUN 86_**

_Better. They're passing the buck entirely. Leaving it to the Alliance. Who's formed a committee. DA_

**_Message sent: 02 JUN 86_**

_So you're saying the rescue might be necessary, then. Pretty sure we all know at what pace governmental committees act. We'll all have been harvested fifty years before they decide what action to take. GV_

**_Message received: 02 JUN 86_**

_That's a bit harsh. I'd put it at twenty-five on the outside. DA_

#

"D'you know who I am?"

Garrus looked up from his datapad, startled. He'd thought she was sleeping, but his mother's amber gaze was fixed on him, and though her voice was weary, there was no mistaking the genuine confusion in it. The words were a little slurred. He wanted to blame fatigue, but since all she did these days was sleep, he feared it was just another brutal symptom, another shift from white to black. Another thing he couldn't have anticipated, couldn't change, couldn't fix.

"You're Niva Vakarian."

After a moment of pensive thought, her mandibles twitched into a brief smile. "Of course I am. Silly to have forgotten. Must've been that bump to the head. A hit and run. Of all the things. But what are you doing here, Kaius? You should be at work. I told you not to come. It was just an accident. My bones will be as good as new in no time. They can do so much with medicine these days."

Garrus' response froze on his tongue, and something of it must have shown in his expression, because his mother tipped her head in sympathy and said, "Not that I'm not happy to see you, love."

"I—I'm happy to see you too," he mumbled, rising, intending to go find his father. He had to push away from the memory, the feeling of helplessness that had attended the words _your mother's been involved in an accident. _Words almost as bad as Solana saying _Garrus, I've got some bad news about Mom. _"I… just—I'll be right back."

He made it as far as the door before her voice, oddly strident, halted him. "Garrus," she said. "I know that look. Your father wears it when he thinks I can't see. My sweet boy. What have you seen, to make you so sad, so hard, so broken? What have you lost, to make you so afraid?"

"Mom," he whispered, turning back. She wasn't looking at him, though. Her gaze was fixed on some invisible object in the middle distance.

"It's a funny thing, love," she continued. "The best guerrilla soldier of them all. Always ambushes you when you least expect it." She raised her hand to cup her own cheek and closed her eyes, leaning into the hand as though imagining something—someone—else. "I hated Kaius when I first met him. I thought he was cold. So stiff. So _humorless._ I had no idea he was only scared. Don't be scared, dear one. Love is worth being brave for. I've failed if I never managed to teach you that."

"Mom…"

She blinked at him and lowered her hand, and the emptiness in her eyes chilled him. "Do you know who I am?"

His stomach twisted, and this time when he spoke there was no keeping the low note of sorrow from his subharmonics. "You're Niva Vakarian."

"No," she said softly, after an unnaturally long pause, "you must be mistaken. Niva Vakarian died years ago." Her eyes snapped up to his, no longer empty, but filled with rage, and it took a great deal of effort not to flinch. "Get out! I don't know you! Get out of my house! _Now! _I'll kill you! Don't think I won't!"

She scratched at him as he injected the sedatives into her system. And even as sleep took her, the accusation never left her eyes.

#

**_Message received: 16 JUN 86_**

_I don't like to see her like this. She is good at many things, but sitting useless and idle when there's so much to be done isn't one of them. DA_

**_Message sent: 16 JUN 86_**

_Is she allowed to have books? GV_

**_Message received: 16 JUN 86_**

_Paper ones, yes. DA_

**_Message sent: 17 JUN 86_**

_Find her a copy of—wait, let me look it up. _The Odyssey_. That's what it's called. Find her a copy of _The Odyssey_. GV_

**_Message received: 18 JUN 86_**

_That brought out the first smile I've seen in a month, son. DA_

#

Garrus was dreaming. He and Shepard were alone on a mission—strange in and of itself. He kept expecting to see Tali or Jack or Krios at his flank, but there was never anyone there when he turned to look. He had no idea what their objective was meant to be. He wanted to ask, but for some reason he knew silence was paramount.

The metallic walls and the thrum of engines told him it was some kind of ship, but a twisting labyrinth of one whose layout made exactly no sense and didn't match the specs of any vessel he'd ever been on. The world around him was shaded in ruddy hues, every light limned in red. Red as Shepard's hair. She wasn't wearing a helmet. She never wore her damned helmet if she could help it. So he saw flashes of color always too far ahead, always a little out of range, almost lost in the ship's strange light. He wanted to tell her to stop, to slow down, but he couldn't find his voice.

_We're running silent,_ he thought. _Can't compromise the mission now._

Shepard running ahead was how he knew it was a dream. In real combat, she either hung back with him to snipe, or she kept him in the loop over the comms so he'd be there to cover her when her tactical cloak wore off. _You know what happens when you go off on your own,_ he thought at her. _How about you make the calls when you're the commanding officer,_ he imagined her snapping peevishly in response.

_I tried_, he'd say.

_You failed_, she'd reply.

Except that seemed wrong. He couldn't imagine those words falling from Shepard's lips.

But then, he wouldn't have imagined her running ahead of him, either. Leaving him behind.

Maybe he could imagine that.

The air vibrated with a low keening—something he felt rather than heard. It was enough to make his bones ache beneath his armor. Shepard disappeared down another corridor, and this time when he spun around the corner after her, no telltale bright hair marked where she'd gone. He tried to speak her name, mission be damned, but nothing emerged. _Don't you dare, Shepard. Don't you dare do this again._

Years of training—first in the military, and then at C-Sec—had made Garrus a light sleeper. He was awake as soon as the touch landed on his shoulder, and reaching for a weapon before he realized it was Solana standing beside him and not Shepard.

"No," he said. Already certain. Wishing he wasn't.

"She's gone." Grief distorted his sister's voice as she curled her arms tightly around herself. The low thrumming note of despair continued, rumbling deep in her chest even as the words fell into silence. "She's just… gone."

Garrus was up in a moment, but then he stopped, his chest aching, his empty hands longing for something—anything—to do. Knowing there was nothing.

_She's gone._

_Gone._

"No," he echoed, even as his mind, the traitor, whispered _you already know it's true._

He just didn't want to believe it.

#

**_Message: 1 JUL 86_**

_My mom died today, Shepard. I didn't ever tell you she was sick. I don't know why. Now she's dead. How can science bring back the dead, but not figure out how to cure a disease they've known about longer than either of us has been alive?_

**_Message unsent. Delete this message?_**


	3. Chapter 3

If he hadn't known better, if he hadn't seen his father hovering over his mother's sickbed for weeks, if he'd never heard the break in his voice when he said _she'd have done the same for me,_ Garrus might have believed him heartless in the aftermath of her death. The helpless husband was gone, replaced by a man driven by single-minded focus. Controlled. Cool. Calm.

To someone else, it might have looked like he was trying to make the entire ordeal disappear, to pretend it had never happened by erasing all evidence of it, but here, at least, Garrus understood his father. He couldn't bring her back—nothing could bring her back—but he could attempt to make sense of the world she'd left behind. No more waiting. No more uncertainty. At least for the time being, grey had shifted back to the more easily understood polarity of black and white. Garrus saw the grief in his father's desperate organization. It wasn't solving a case or taking down a slaving ring or stopping a shipment of red sand, but it was work. It was something to _do. _Maybe it was a kind of escape, but it wasn't one Garrus could begrudge him.

It was the opposite with Solana. While his father tended to arrangements and calls and tying the myriad loose ends that required tying, Garrus followed his sister around like a silent spirit, so every time she broke down she wouldn't have to be alone.

She broke down a lot.

At first he didn't understand it. Solana had never been prone to emotional extremes—or, at least, not where anyone might see them. She was the calm one, the one who kept things together, the one others looked to when everything was going to hell. She was, in that respect, very much like their father. The more Garrus watched, though, and the more he listened, the more he came to realize it wasn't just the loss of their mother affecting his sister. She was grieving, but she was also suddenly cast adrift. She'd lost her _occupation_. For years, Sol had given everything—and given _up_ everything, he was starting to understand—in order to be their mother's primary caregiver. She'd learned all the medicine, kept up with all the research, and had been the first to know when something new appeared on the medical horizon. She'd been the resident expert on all things Corpalis, and all things Mom.

And now, he suspected, she didn't have the first idea what to do with herself.

Several times Garrus lost track of her only to find her standing in the room that had become their mother's makeshift hospital. The medical equipment was all gone, of course—Dad had seen to that right away; no one wanted the reminder—but Solana stared at the empty space as if staring might give her something to do again.

"Sol?"

She turned her head, blinking at him with the weary fuzziness of a dreamer abruptly awoken. "Don't ask me if I'm okay," she said, the hum of grief distorting the tone of her words.

"I wasn't going to," he lied.

She scraped her talons back over the curve of her skull and left her hands there, face half-hidden by her bent elbows. After a moment, she dropped her arms back to her sides and took a deep, shuddering breath. "You've always been a terrible liar, G," she said. "I don't know what the hell's wrong with me. I hated seeing her suffer. But now… now I'd give anything to have her back. Even if it meant she was still sick. Is that… I think it's messed up. I think it's really messed up."

He stepped close, but didn't touch her. He could feel the coiled energy of her like a physical presence, looking for an outlet. If there'd been any priceless heirlooms left lying around, he'd have handed her one to throw against the glaring, bare walls.

"What do I do now, Garrus?" Solana asked, still gazing ahead at the bare floor where a bed had been. "I'm not who I was. I don't think I can just… go back."

"No, you can't," he said, too quickly. Too firmly. Beside him, she flinched. If he hadn't been standing so close he might've missed it. More gently, he added, "No one can."

"Dad doesn't seem to have that problem," she replied, with a hint of bitterness. "It's business as usual for him."

"That's not fair, Sol. He's… hell, I think he's grieving the only way he knows how."

"I know," she said, wearily. "I just… I never let myself think about later. About after. I don't know what to do."

He thought of Shepard, still smelling of blood and battle, saying, _they're coming _soon_. You don't understand. If I hadn't… they'd be here _now_._ Time was funny that way. Fickle. And he'd already let weeks—months—slip away from him. "You… you don't have to decide right away."

"Maybe not." He wondered if she was going to accuse him of lying again. Maybe he wasn't as bad at it as she thought, though, because after another long pause, she heaved one more sigh and turned away from the empty room and its bad memories. "Coming? I could use some lunch."

Halfway to the kitchen, she said, "What are _you_ going to do, anyway?"

Her tone was almost conversational, but something in the simplicity of the question arrested him. He'd come here meaning to do something, to make a difference, and instead he'd been caught up in the past, the immediacy of a moment that wasn't going to matter if the Reapers came and no one in the galaxy had even begun to prepare for them.

Illness had a way of stealing time, though. So did grief.

The last time he'd been grieving—really grieving—he hadn't even properly acknowledged it. Anderson had taken him aside and said a whole lot of horrible words like _the _Normandy_ went down over Alchera_ and _for now Commander Shepard's listed as missing in action, but Flight Lieutenant Moreau says he saw her die _and _I thought you should hear it from me. You deserve that much._

It had seemed ridiculous at the time, to care so damned much about one dead human he hadn't even known all that long. So he _had_ gone back to business as usual for a while, ignoring the scratching at the back of his head that wouldn't let him rest and that sometimes spoke to him in a voice he told himself sounded nothing like Shepard's. (Solana would have called him pretty quickly on _that_ lie too.) He was irritable and trigger-happy and did an even worse job than usual of following the rules. He took his frustrations out on criminals and his coworkers, because he couldn't admit, even to himself, what he really wanted to do was find out who'd shot down the _Normandy_ and put perfectly-aimed bullets into their bastard skulls.

Then he left, telling himself he could do good elsewhere, even though mostly he was still wondering just _how_ classified Spectre and Alliance documentation could be. He'd stopped in Omega on the way to Alchera (even though he knew Alchera was unpopulated and there'd be no leads to follow that hadn't been followed already), and he let himself get distracted. Garrus Vakarian and his formless grief were allowed to rest while Archangel killed bullies who needed killing, with a side of poetic justice.

He'd grieved after Sidonis' betrayal, too, his hands and his conscience soaked with the blood of his dead squadmates, but that had been mourning of a different kind. He'd embraced revenge then, and vengeance kept him warm where grief would have left him cold. He'd been cold a lot in those early days after Anderson told him about Shepard, now that he thought about it.

_Turians don't like the cold, Shepard. Did I ever mention that?_

He didn't realize he'd stopped moving until Solana turned and retraced her steps. "Spirits, Garrus, I didn't mean to break your brain. It was just a question."

"I was just—"

"Staring into space for five minutes even though I said your name half a dozen times?" She shook her head. "What the hell happened to you out there, G?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah," she said. She'd lost the weary hopelessness, and in its place was a strange mix of skepticism and worry and caring that reminded him so much of their mother he had to look away. "I know that one. Funny how it doesn't sound any more believable coming out of your mouth." She leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other and her arms over her chest. "I guess I never asked if you were staying. Didn't want to hear the answer until now. But I'm curious, G, because if it's leave it's a hell of a long one and if it's not—"

"It's not leave," he said, more to halt the stream of consciousness and less because he had any sort of explanation for her. "Not… precisely."

"And you know what else?" Solana asked, her voice rising and frustration replacing sorrow in the subtle thrum of her subvocals. He'd have been glad of the change if the irritation wasn't currently directed at him. "I'm done with the vagueness and the prevarications and the wannabe-Spectre bullshit. I keep waiting for… for, I don't know, _you_ to show up."

"Thanks," he growled, bristling.

"You know what I mean!"

"No," he said, "I don't, actually."

"You're… you're just so _different._"

"Yeah," he said. "I am. I left. I'd like to say I grew up, but… dammit, Solana, I screwed up more times than I can count, I… lost people, I got people killed, I nearly died myself. More than once. You're pissed at me. I get it. I probably even deserve it. But this is who I am. I'm not some broken version of your brother you can tinker with and fix and put back on the shelf, good as new."

"That's not what I—"

"_What_, then?" Garrus snapped. "What are you talking about?"

"This," Solana said, slashing her hand in his general direction before tucking it tightly against her chest once again. "Following me around. Making sure I'm okay. You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up when you want and act like you care. You don't get to make me confide in you or rely on you, when I know you're just going to turn around and walk out again. Because I know what happens next, G. Your cause—whatever it is, Reapers, mutated geth, a human Spectre you've shown more loyalty to than you've shown to your own family—whatever it is? That cause comes knocking, you finally get the damned message you're always checking your omni-tool for, and you're gone again. So I can't afford to let you in. And I wish you'd stop trying so damned hard to make me."

He took an involuntary step back, as if she'd reached out and hit him. "Fine," he said, even though it wasn't fine and the word was hardly louder than the breath he used to speak it. His omni-tool pinged, too loud in the sudden silence, as if to punctuate her point. He ignored it. Solana didn't.

"Maybe it's your lucky day," she said. Before he could do more than begin a protest, she was gone.

He didn't follow. He knew he couldn't really argue anyway. The message wasn't from Shepard. It wasn't even from Anderson. But his sister was right. If Shepard showed up with a gun and a grin and a place for him on her ship, he'd be gone.

#

**_Message received: 7 JUL 86_**

_Why don't you reply to your messages, Garrus? You're the last person I expect brusque, one-word answers from. Miranda, maybe. Or Jack. (Her one word would just be an expletive.) Have you heard from Shepard? No one else has, that I've been able to discover. I wish she'd—I know. There's no point to those kinds of wishes, but I still can't help wishing._

_They're talking about making me an Admiral. Me. An Admiral. I think it's ridiculous. Also terrifying._

_Part of me just wishes we were all on the _Normandy_ again. I don't even know which one, anymore. It was home. And then it wasn't. They both were. Shepard is, I guess._

_Tali_

**_Message: 9 JUL 86_**

_Sorry, Tali. Things have been—_

**_Message deleted._**

**_Message: 11 JUL 86_**

_Hi, Tali. Didn't mean to be brusque. Or is it Admiral Tali'Zorah now? Still on Palaven, haven't even thought about broaching the subject of the Reapers with the Hierarchy, haven't done anything except sit around feeling sorry for myself—_

**_Message deleted._**

**_Message: 14 JUL 86_**

_I miss the _Normandy_ too._

**_Message deleted._**

#

Solana wasn't in the garden.

With their argument fresh and her secret hiding spot no secret to him, it was the last place he expected her to be.

Which was why he'd chosen it.

Everyone had given the garden a wide berth since—since. Now, standing amidst the overgrown vegetation, he realized his mistake at once. The garden might've been safe from Solana, but his mother was everywhere.

The loss of her was everywhere.

And he'd been doing such a good job of hiding from it.

It was in the patches of blossoms choked by encroaching weeds, and in the velara tree whose branches were nearly breaking under the strain of too much unharvested fruit. It was in the bench under the trellises heavy with flowers. It was in the hundred mixing, myriad scents. It was in the rich, moist air and the warmth of the light falling through the panes of golden glass.

The garden was ripe with life. Heady with it.

And his mother was dead.

_What are you going to do, anyway?_

He heard the low keening, only vaguely recognizing he was the one making the sound. Shuddering with sudden cold, he dropped to his knees and began tearing at the weeds. He thought they were weeds, anyway. The plants were dark and ugly and spiked, and he wanted them gone. If he only worked hard enough, tried hard enough, he could fix things. Make them nice again. Make them better. Turn the grey into black or white. The keening grew louder, the pace of his weeding more frantic.

He stopped when he pulled a bunch of kiris flowers by mistake. His mother's favorites, the blossoms lay pale and dead, battered by his reckless gardening. The smell, sweet and strong, was unmistakable. They only released their scent when crushed.

_They die beautifully,_ his mother had said once. _So unassuming in life, they make perfume like no other when their lives are sacrificed._

"But they're still dead," Garrus said aloud, into the empty garden.

_So make it count,_ his mother's voice said. He imagined her fingers brushing the top of his head. He imagined her brow pressed affectionately to his. He imagined, just for a moment, her arms squeezing him in a last embrace. _Make it mean something, dear one. Giving up is for lesser blooms._

Garrus sat in the garden for an hour, haunted by the scent of the kiris, torn between staying and going, between life and death, between grief and galvanization.

"Just like old times," he finally said, rising from the demolished bed of plants. If Solana wanted him gone, he'd go. But he wouldn't run. He'd just… find another way. Another tactic. He was good at that.

Sometimes, anyway, he was good at that.

#

**_Message sent: 15 JUL 86_**

_Anderson. Not asking you to break any regs for me or anything, but… copies of certain mission reports wouldn't go amiss, if they happened to find their way to me. I've got some politicians to convince. And one old C-Sec officer. He'll be the tough sell. GV_

**_Message received: 15 JUL 86_**

_Anything to help the cause. See no reason not to forward everything that mentions your name, at least. Just as well you had her back as much as you did. It'd be good to get that tough sell on board. His voice still carries a hell of a lot of weight. DA_

_#_

He was packing his things when his father found him. His dad didn't say anything about the open duffel. He only tossed an old Krysae-make sniper rifle that had been outdated even before Garrus left for C-Sec at his head. He caught it with one hand and raised his shoulders in a querying shrug. His hands still smelled of kiris perfume.

"I want to see if you've forgotten everything I taught you."

Since they obviously weren't discussing the departure he'd been planning, Garrus took the bait. "You know I do have my own gun, right?"

His dad's low chuckle surprised him even more than the throwing of the gun had. "And I know you've probably got it modded to the point its manufacturers wouldn't recognize it anymore." He tapped the side of his head. "I'm going to make you take that thing off, too. Dangerous to rely too much on peripherals. You should know that. They'll fail when you can least afford it."

Garrus grimaced, but didn't argue.

Besides, he knew how good a shot he was now. Old gun or new. Visor or no visor.

They trekked out behind the house, to the same old rocky outcropping Garrus remembered with such painfully humiliating clarity from his youth. While his father set up targets, Garrus looked over the relic in his arms. Hell, it might even have _been_ the same damned gun his dad made him practice with as a kid; it was that old. It was going to have recoil like a kick to the shoulder and its targeting system was off by a mile—nothing he couldn't compensate for, but he still wished he had time to calibrate the thing properly. Still, if his dad thought something like a poorly-adjusted gun was going to throw him off his game, he was in for a surprise.

It was almost enough to make him smile.

When his father was finished, Garrus held out the gun. "You want to show me how it's done?"

On a bland look, he shook his head and gestured at the targets. "And don't think I didn't hear that unspoken _old man_. Go on. I can tell you're just itching to show off."

Smirking, Garrus reached up and turned off his visor. It took a moment to get used to a world without the flicker of light and ever-present ticker of information, but before his father could comment on it, Garrus adjusted for all the gun's impediments and sent a round through the most distant bottle.

He was lining up the second shot when his dad said, "You want to tell me why you're really here, son?"

Garrus missed. Completely. He couldn't even pretend otherwise. The bullet veered so widely off target he didn't see where it actually hit.

Shepard would have taunted him unmercifully.

His dad only fixed him with the steady, unblinking stare that still haunted some of Garrus' nightmares. The ones where he was an unceasing disappointment.

"Did Solana put you up to this?"

"She didn't have to. I've been distracted, not blind. You think I don't recognize a man with a weight on his shoulders like the one you're carrying?" He sighed, turning to gaze out at the rocky landscape.

Garrus unclenched his hands from around their death-grip on the rifle.

"I'm glad you came when you did," his father added, still not looking at him. "But you and I both know it wasn't just about—it wasn't just about her. Something about those stories you were telling your sister? Geth not being geth?"

Instead of answering, Garrus lined up another bottle and fired. He didn't know it if was to prove something to himself or to his father, but in either case he was pretty sure it failed. Oh, the shot was clean, and the bottle shattered neatly—headshot, if bottles had heads—but he couldn't capture the sense of calm that usually came with a good shot.

"The geth are the geth," Garrus said. "But the geth aren't the problem. Hell, the geth might even be _allies_, and if you'd told me that six months ago, I'd've laughed in your face. The _Reapers_ are the problem. Like I told my sister."

"And you're here to… to what? Stop them? How?"

Garrus inhaled deeply, held the breath until he thought he could speak without losing his temper, and then released it slowly. "What did you always teach me, Dad? Follow the evidence. Well. We've been following the damned evidence. And it says we're in for a hell of a rude awakening if we, as a galaxy, don't pull our collective heads from our collective asses before the Reapers get here. And they will get here. It's just a matter of time."

"You're beginning to sound like one of them. Human. Human phrases. Human words. You don't sound like yourself."

Frustrated, Garrus turned away and took aim once again. The sun was sliding below the horizon, spreading long fingers of bright light across the jagged stones. He blinked, adjusted his gun to compensate for the brightness, and tried not to imagine what the same view would look like when the Reapers came. The light wouldn't be sunlight. He knew that much. He took the shot. Another bottle died. He wished it could be that damned easy. "You mean I don't sound like _you_, Dad. I sound exactly like me."

To Garrus' surprise, his father only chuckled. "True enough, son. So, start at the beginning."

"The… beginning?"

"This evidence of yours. Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

"You'll listen?"

His dad didn't answer. His silence was the kind that said _I choose not to dignify such a ridiculous question with a response._ Garrus cleaned an imaginary speck of dust from the pristine old gun in his arms and said, "Look, before I say anything, there's something you've got to understand. And you're not going to like it."

His father only inclined his head, and the expression shifted to one Garrus remembered well from their overlapping C-Sec days. It was a 'tell me the truth and I'll respect you; feed me a line of bullshit and I'll feed you to a pack of rabid varren piece by piece' kind of look.

"The Council's… wrong. Not just mistaken. Not just confused. Certainly not misinformed. They're practically the only ones who _are_ informed, and they're not doing anything with that information. They deliberately buried what Shepard learned about the Reapers. They know damned well it wasn't just the geth behind the attack on the Citadel. But they won't admit it. So if you go looking for corroboration from them, you're going to find a whole lot of misinformation and dead ends."

His father nodded. Just once. His mandibles didn't so much as twitch. "You've seen them?"

It wasn't unequivocal support, but it was—in one sentence, one question—more even than the Council had given Shepard, who was supposedly one of _theirs_, the last time she stood before them all but begging them to take her—and the threat—seriously. Garrus exhaled, feeling like he'd passed a test. Or won a battle he'd been sure of losing. "Yeah. Maybe not the same way Shepard has, but—I've seen them. I've seen enough."

It wasn't a smile, but his dad's left mandible definitely flicked. "Well. Sparatus always was a pompous ass who wouldn't acknowledge a truth he didn't like even if it was standing there screaming in his face."

"So you—"

"Give me your evidence, son. I know you know how. I won't even make you fill out forms in triplicate."

Startled, Garrus laughed. The amusement sounded strained and strange even to his own ears, but it was something. "Pretend it's an incident report?"

"A bad night at Chora's Den."

Garrus grinned and snorted another brief laugh. _Everyone_ who worked C-Sec had a _bad night at Chora's Den_ horror story. "Eyewitness reports? Or only what I was present for?"

"Give me what's pertinent."

"Fine. Well. For Shepard, it started on Eden Prime—"

He had just enough time to register the sound of the shot before one of the remaining bottles shattered. Garrus had his own weapon up and ready, cursing his silent visor, when a second shot rang out and a second bottle vanished in a cloud of shards. Sniper, then. Good one. Aiming to warn and not to kill, or the two shots would have been their two heads. He hadn't seen enough to work out a trajectory, not without his visor, but if he could—

"That's enough, Solana. You've proven your point."

The air shimmered and his sister appeared from beneath a tactical cloak so seamless Garrus was already considering just how hard he'd have to beg—or what he'd have to promise—to get her to rig something up for Shepard. Even Kasumi would have been just a little in awe (or burning with covetous desire. Or planning a theft). He wondered how well it would have fooled his visor. Solana settled the long barrel of her rifle against her shoulder and tilted her head at him. "What's with the duffel in your room?"

"Thought maybe I'd overstayed my welcome," he said, aiming for nonchalant.

"Don't be stupid," she retorted. "Since when have you been so damned sensitive about every little thing? We had an argument. In case you've forgotten, that's kind of what we do. Then we forgive each other and move on. Preferably without having to talk about it."

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug as he finally lowered his weapon. Hers was newer, he noted. Maybe not quite at the level of the Incisor sitting in his room, but—"Sol, did you _steal_ my scope?"

She smirked. "It helped with the forgiveness."

Lifting the pilfered scope to her eye, Solana effortlessly shot down the last of the remaining bottles. "You're right, though. It's a great mod. I think I can make it better." Then she grinned. "But I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Right," Garrus said, while their father only gave an amused, fond sort of smile. "Our conversation happened to be in the way of the targets you wanted to shoot."

"Precisely! But I'm finished now, so feel free to go on. You were, I believe, about to discuss Eden Prime?"

Garrus snorted. "How long were you there?"

Solana broke down the rifle with swift, certain movements. "It was rude not to include me in the first place. But we're not going to fight about it because you don't have any more mods for me to take as payment for you being an ass."

"There's the extended barrel—"

She laughed. He was pretty sure it was the first genuine laugh since—since the night she woke him with the words _she's gone._ "About that…"

"Eden Prime?" their father said mildly.

Garrus glowered at his sister and said, "Yeah. Eden Prime. I guess it was supposed to be a routine mission."

"They always say that when things are about to blow up in your face," Solana said.

"Or when someone's going to shoot you in the back," his dad echoed. Garrus, surprised, turned to face him. "They may have conveniently erased mention of a sentient race of machines, but I know what happened to Nihlus Kryik. Go on."

Garrus talked. Every once in a while, one or the other would stop him with a remark or a question or an observation, and Garrus would pause to answer or to consider his next words or to backtrack when he realized he'd forgotten something necessary. He stuck to the facts as best he knew them, with as little emotion as he could. Clear. Concise. An incident report three years long. Eden Prime. Virmire. Ilos. Sovereign. Harbinger. The Collectors. He skimmed over Omega; his father gave him a long, steady look that said he knew an omission when he heard one, but since it didn't have anything to do with the Reaper threat, he didn't say anything.

By the time he got to Aratoht, his throat ached, his stomach growled, and his family watched him with strained, troubled expressions on their faces, so identical it would have been amusing if he hadn't just told them about the face of the enemy committed to killing them all. He tried to smile and failed. "So," he said. "Just how crazy do you think I am?"

"Crazy," Solana said first, but without her usual teasing air. She got to her feet, but didn't bother to brush the dust from her clothing. Her fingers tightened around the gun's grip. "But I… I think I should tell Naxus. He'll listen. Might even be able to do something."

When she disappeared behind her cloak before Garrus could say _Naxus who?, _he flicked his visor back on. The faintest shimmer of distortion betrayed her, but she hadn't stayed to listen any longer; she was already moving back to the house.

"Naxus?" Garrus asked.

"He's a Fedorian," his dad explained. "Through a more distant branch than Tyvus. Cousin of some sort. He and Solana served together in the Sixth. It's a… friendship that's survived a long time. He made something of a name for himself at the Battle of the Citadel, when his captain died. Rumor is he'll be promoted to general sooner rather than later. One of the youngest."

Garrus sighed. "And Solana thinks he'll help? With a promotion on the line?"

"He'll help. So will Tyvus."

"You think the primarch will listen? I wasn't exaggerating the skepticism of the turian councilor—"

"Tyvus and I have a similar opinion of Sparatus, son. And Tyvus will listen to me. Can't guarantee he'll do as much as you'd like him to do, but he'll listen. He owes me that much." His dad laughed and patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Long story. We've had enough long stories for one day, and I have calls to make."

"Me too," Garrus said softly.

It was a dangerous feeling, hope. He didn't want to get used to it.

But just for a moment, as he and his dad headed back to the house, he let himself enjoy it.

#

**_Message sent: 1 AUG 86_**

_How's she doing? GV_

**_Message received: 2 AUG 86_**

_Passed irritated two weeks ago. Solidly on her way to stir-crazy. Think she's trying to rig a tactical cloak out of the innocuous crap they let her keep. Haven't bothered letting anyone know my suspicions. DA_

**_Message sent: 2 AUG 86_**

_If anyone can do it, she can. GV_

**_Message received: 3 AUG 86_**

_Not sure about that. Her base model seems to be a blanket. DA_

#

When they gave him the title _Expert Advisor on the Reaper Threat_, Garrus thought it was a joke.

Luckily, he didn't laugh. It wasn't the done thing, after all, laughing in the face of the primarch of Palaven, not if you weren't _entirely_ sure he was joking. And not while the gathered assortment of dignitaries and politicians and generals were decidedly _not_ laughing with you. No matter how outlandish the pronouncement the primarch had just made.

Garrus managed, by sheer force of will unlike anything he'd ever accomplished before, not to turn and look at his dad and his sister. Because if either of them had an inkling this was coming, they hadn't seen fit to share the information with him. He was relatively certain he'd see Solana, at least, smirking. He could practically feel her expression boring a self-satisfied hole in the back of his head. For someone who'd spent the last several years as a nurse for a single patient, she seemed astonishingly well-connected. Or maybe that was just what happened if you didn't cut ties and burn bridges and haul yourself off to a hellhole of a station on the edge of the Terminus to die.

_Shepard_, he'd said, _you're about the only friend I've got left in this screwed up galaxy._

He'd meant it.

Times like this, he wished he'd done a better job of making friends. Keeping them.

He couldn't afford to think of that one friend, though. Not now. Not with the screwed up galaxy poised to end up even more screwed up if he couldn't pull his weight.

Primarch Fedorian was still talking, though Garrus had stopped listening around the same time the man had spoken the handful of baffling words that had, it seemed, resulted in him being promoted. It was something about duty, now, and honor, and service; the same dry rhetoric every turian grew up eating and drinking and breathing and believing with their whole hearts. Garrus pulled his thoughts away from Shepard, forcing himself to take in the primarch's words.

He'd thought they were headed to yet another… well, they called them _information sessions_ but what they amounted to was a lot of shouting and a lot of begging with a hefty dose of repetition. It had gotten to the point where he'd started dreaming he was trying to make the primarch and his advisors understand, only to wake and find he had to repeat himself yet again in person. He'd been doing the same thing, over and over, day in and day out, for weeks, with no appreciable results. Until this. Seemingly out of nowhere.

Expert Advisor on the Reaper Threat. It was a hell of a mouthful, but if it _wasn't_ a joke… maybe, just maybe…

And there was that _hope_ again. Sneaking in. Setting up an ambush. Taking aim.

"You'll stay for dinner," the primarch said. It didn't escape Garrus' notice that it was decidedly not a _request._ It was also something new. He'd never been invited to stay after one of their beating-head-against-wall conferences. "And tomorrow you'll meet with Colonel Fedorian and assemble a task force of some kind. Naxus'll have ideas. Minimal oversight, but regular reports, Vakarian. We won't be caught blind. Understood?"

Still waiting for the punchline, Garrus nodded, and then respectfully inclined his head. After a moment, his father's hand came down lightly on his shoulder. "I told you he'd come around," he said, pitching his voice low. "Now, of course, the bulk of the responsibility lies with you."

For the first time in his life, Garrus didn't hear—or imagine—his father's voice underscored with inevitable disappointment. There was a weightiness to it, certainly, but maybe—just maybe—a little bit of pride, too. "I know," he said. "I still don't know how you got him to listen."

"_We_ made him listen. Own what you've earned, son." His father smiled, patted his shoulder once more, and gestured for Garrus to follow the departing dignitaries toward the dining room. "The mission reports were… helpful. I may have insinuated the Alliance was initiating a similar program."

"Dad," Garrus said with no small amount of genuine astonishment. On his father's stern look, he lowered his voice. "_They've_ got their Expert Reaper Advisor in a brig somewhere."

His father shrugged and kept walking. His _father._ Who'd _almost_ lied. To the primarch, no less. Garrus realized he'd stopped, and took several long steps to catch up. "They do have one, though. They're simply not listening to her. I wouldn't see the Turian Hierarchy make the same mistake." He turned a mild gaze on Garrus. "To the observant, a weakness is an opportunity. You know that."

Garrus nodded. "The Hierarchy's nervous about the Alliance's rapid growth."

"The Hierarchy's been nervous about the Alliance's rapid growth since the Relay 314 Incident. Pride keeps them from poking at the holes in the story. Humanity has done in a hundred years what it took us thousands to achieve. They will never admit their concern—or the feelings that border on inadequacy—because of this. They do not wish to be seen as weak. Not with so much at stake. So hinting that Alliance may be taking measures they are not—"

"Is enough to get them to commit to what they wouldn't otherwise, because they don't want humanity rushing in and playing hero while they're caught with their pants around their ankles."

His father snorted and shook his head. "Human idioms. Uncouth, but occasionally all too appropriate. They may be the wide-eyed, foolish children of the Citadel races, but they're bold. The Alliance did not have to do as they did for the Destiny Ascension, and though no one speaks of it, everyone knows."

"That was Shepard's call, you know. I… I told her to sacrifice the Council."

"I'd have done the same," his father said. "But that is what I mean about their boldness. To sacrifice one's own race—a race with very little stake in that Council—was bold. And like so many of humanity's boldest decisions, it worked in their favor. A human Councilor after less than thirty years."

"You almost sound like you admire them."

"Part of me does. And part of me resents them."

"Right. Model turian, then."

"Times change. I think only an fool refuses to change with them," his father said. "I've no interest in being foolish."

Garrus was prevented from answering by the abrupt arrival of an aide who wanted to whisk him away and seat him at the primarch's right hand. He wondered if there was a way to rig his omni-tool to take vid without anyone noticing.

Sound recording, maybe.

Otherwise Shepard was never going to believe it.

#

**_16 AUG 86_**

_Looks like the Hierarchy might just be coming around, Anderson. Thanks for the files; they made a difference. They're calling me their Expert Reaper Advisor now. Wish I could see Shepard's face when she hears that. The word Reaper spoken by a turian, without the application of air quotes. It'd make her damned da—_

"So who is she, anyway?"

Garrus looked up from his datapad, willing his face to stillness. His right mandible, the traitorous bastard, twitched. "She?"

Solana scowled at him, though it was good-natured enough, for a scowl. "The girl?"

"Girl?" He wanted to glance down, wanted to see what she might have seen him writing, but he managed to keep looking at her. Maybe a little too steadily, if the 'exactly how insane are you' expression on her face was anything to go by. Slowly, like it didn't matter, he slid the datapad and its half-finished message away, far from her curious gaze.

Throwing herself into the seat next to him, Solana nudged him hard with her shoulder. "Come _on_, Garrus. Obviously there's a girl."

He tried another tactic, smirking, "I am irresistible."

Solana clearly wasn't fooled. "In case you failed to notice—and I think maybe you _did_—the primarch's daughter was all but throwing herself into bed with you at dinner last night."

He blinked. "She wasn't."

"Yes, Garrus. She was. It was so obvious I actually felt sorry for her. It hurt to watch. Because you were just—" Solana wiggled her fingers in his general direction, "—doing this thing you're doing."

"Thing?"

"Really? You're actually going to play it like that, are you? Even with me?" Solana huffed and sank deeper against the seat, never once looking away from him. "I'm good at this game, you know." She folded her hands across her middle, and crossed her legs at the ankles, the picture of ease. "This is what I've figured out: there's a girl. And not just any girl, because a fling—even a good fling—wouldn't stop you from seeing the _plethora_ of possibilities laid out before you. Honestly. The _primarch's _daughter. So she's someone you're serious about. You haven't talked about her, which means you think either she doesn't feel the same way, or that we—_Dad_—wouldn't approve?"

She raised the final words into a question, but Garrus only gazed at her evenly, aiming for indifference and hoping she couldn't hear his hammering pulse from a foot away.

"Hmm," she mused. "Not even a witty comeback about how _obviously_ no girl could resist your charms?"

"Obviously no girl could resist my charms," he replied, deadpan.

Solana's mandibles fluttered in silent amusement. "Boy, then?"

Garrus chuckled. "Now you're getting closer."

"Liar. That was a control question. I doubt your time spent playing intergalactic space hero has changed your tastes _that_ much. But she's not turian."

His laugh died abruptly. "How do you figure that?"

She rolled one shoulder in a diffident shrug. "Call it a hunch. Also, the look on your face right now. Spirits. So. How blue _is_ her skin? Does she match your markings? When do we get to meet her?"

"Blue," Garrus echoed. "Blue?"

Solana, indifferent to his astonishment, laughed to herself. "I _knew_ it. You're right, Dad won't love the idea, but… it's not so rare anymore. Alix Veranius has an asari consort, and no one says anything. And he's not _that_ far down the Hierarchy. She's even on the vids with him sometimes. I have a friend who ran into her at a party once, said she was nice. Great voice, he said, though I don't know. Without subharmonics? It's a bit like missing a limb. How do you deal with it?"

"Sol…"

His sister grinned at him, and for a moment he wanted to let her have the little fantasy she'd concocted.

"I do not have an asari… consort. Girlfriend. Lover. Anything. No asari. I promise. Too… blue."

The way she blinked at him and cocked her head indicated just how off-guard he'd caught her. Then she reached out and wrapped her fingers tightly around his forearm. "You're not… one too many viewings of _Fleet and Flotilla_? How does that even work? You know… with the suits? They always kind of… gloss over that part, don't they? Did you have to research it? That must've been an awkward search string in your extranet history."

He often teased Shepard about her blushing—her cheeks turned rosy at the slightest provocation and he so enjoyed provoking her—but turians had their tells. Luckily his sister was so involved spinning tales, she missed all of his, and he was in control of himself again by the time he interrupted, "I am not sleeping with a quarian, either." Without flinching, without a moment's hesitation, he added, "She's krogan, actually. It was the scars. She couldn't resist."

"_What?_ How is that—how does it—_what?_"

He laughed. Really laughed. His first _genuine_ laugh since… since everything. Leaving Shepard. His mom. Everything. "Now who has the priceless look on her face? Where would I even _find_ a female krogan, Sol? I suppose I could've looked when I was on Tuchanka, but Wrex would've ripped my fringe off and fed it to one of his pet varren."

"Tuchanka?" She shook her head, her fingers tightening around his arm. "_Wrex_? Are you… what, do you have krogan _friends_ now? Who _are_ you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Friend is a bit generous. _Shepard_ has krogan friends. I have krogan acquaintances who have graciously decided to look past my turian heritage in order to not kill me. Mostly because she wouldn't like it. Funny how people will go out of their way _not_ to annoy Shepard. Unprovoked killing of her—"

Solana sucked in a little gasp, and Garrus heard his own words too late to take any of them back.

"—Gunnery officer," he finished. Lamely. "Unprovoked killing of her gunnery officer might do it."

His sister gave him a little shove, gaping at him in a way that said she'd figured him out. He wondered what, exactly, had given him away. He'd been so careful when speaking of her before. It'd probably been his subvocals. Or the way his expression shifted when he thought about Shepard having to rescue him from Wrex. Doubtless via head-butting. Solana nudged him again, harder.

"You have _got_ to be _kidding._ The Spectre. _The human Spectre?_"

He swallowed and shrugged. "I served on her ship. I don't see what's so surprising about me mentioning her in an anecdote."

"Silly me, I must have missed the part where you mentioned you were in _love_ with her."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you tell yourself that, big brother." Solana buried her face in her hands and shook her head; he had the uncomfortable feeling that it was laughter she was hiding and not horror. "Dad is going to—"

"Dad isn't going to anything," Garrus snapped, harshly enough to bring his sister's gaze back to his. "This is an uphill battle, Sol. People are listening to me. I _need_ people to listen to me. If this—it'd just complicate things. Things that don't need to be any more complicated than they already are."

She deflated, like a slow-motion vid of a building falling down. Her face shifted first, and then her shoulders hunched and she curled over her middle, hands gripping her knees like this could stop the pull of whatever had her in its grip. "Yeah," she said. "Complicated." She sighed, but even when she straightened he could sense the melancholy still clinging to her. "I didn't mean to… I won't say anything. But, uh, it's _Dad._ You may know him for his impeccable record of arrests and his facility with interrogation. Chances are he knows."

Garrus shrugged and shifted uncomfortably. "Then he's not bringing it up and I'm not going to ask him to."

"Ahh, yes," she said. "The Vakarian family motto. If you don't like it, ignore it and hope it goes away."

"It's worked so far."

She grimaced. "No it hasn't. Have you seen how dysfunctional we are? Isn't… isn't there some part of you that's _glad_ I know? I mean, you could talk to me, if you want."

"Sol…"

She wouldn't be dissuaded, though. Turning, she fixed him with an intent gaze, leaning forward eagerly. Garrus fought his instinct to flee. "Was it because it was forbidden? A long-smoldering romance carried out directly under the eyes of your superiors, breaking every regulation in the book? They have rules about that, don't they? The humans?"

Her eagerness bought a brief smile. "You read too many stories, Sol. We, uh… we weren't involved when the ship was Alliance. So, there was a… a grey area. I'm not sure Cerberus thought to make rules prohibiting, uh, fraternization."

"Especially humans fraternizing with non-humans. Serves the bastards right. I hope you, you know, showed them what for. On every available surface—"

He cringed and ducked his head, even as he remembered all too vividly some of the _what for._ And some of the surfaces. "Solana. Stop. Please."

"What? You afraid to talk about _intercourse_? Mating? Bonding?" She laughed. "What do humans say? Making _love_? Sex? Ooh, or you could be like the asari. _Embracing eternity._ That has a nice, melodramatic ring to it. How about—"

Garrus groaned and glanced skyward while his sister traipsed through a dozen more synonyms of increasing vulgarity. He was tempted—sorely tempted—to start blasting his firefight playlist over audio link. Bang Bang Boom would be able to drown her out. "Are you done?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, evidently considering if she was. Just as he was starting to believe a reprieve was at hand, she smirked and asked, "Are they as squishy as they look?"

"_Solana!_"

"What, I've never met a turian who… you know. With a human. I can't be curious?"

"If you're _curious_, look it up on the extranet."

She giggled. Giggled. It was terrifying. Garrus began fervently wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. Or that batarian slavers would abruptly descend. A troop of angry elcor could smash through the glass. _Anything. _A Reaper attack would definitely end the conversation. He'd never hoped for Reapers before, but there was a first time for everything, evidently. "Is that what you had to _do_? I bet you did, too. Oh, for access to your search history. This is _so_ much better than the quarian thing."

He glared at her. The giggling didn't stop. If anything, it only increased. The pitch definitely went up. "Don't even think about it."

"I'm not thinking about anything."

"There's nothing to find. Even if you did hack the security."

She grinned. "There's always something to find, G, you know that. More so when someone's gone to all the trouble of throwing up defenses. Better to leave your pornography in a folder marked, I don't know, _Logs_ or _Config_ or_ Boring Mission Reports_."

"I don't have—"

"Please," she groaned. "You are not _nearly_ a good enough liar to pull off one that barefaced."

"Can we stop talking about this now? I will pay you. I will pay you _millions of credits._"

She relented and took pity, falling into a silence unbroken by questions. Or giggling. He was almost sad to have caused the slip from amusement and teasing back into something darker and quieter and more melancholy.

"So… so who is she, anyway? You never know, the way they paint her on the vids. What's she like?"

He opened his mouth to deflect, but instead words he was sure he hadn't meant to speak came tumbling out, "Honestly? You'd like her. She's driven. Focused. Inordinately fond of her tactical cloak. Damned near unflappable. She never lets me get away with anything. Never lets me act without thinking. But she knows the value of a good joke and never misses the opportunity to get in a good line. And she makes me laugh. When I—" he paused, caught in the abrupt memory of his first real waking moments on the SR-2, face hurting even through the haze of Chakwas' painkillers, and Shepard smiling. He'd still been half-certain her return was a long, complicated, beyond-vivid dream that either meant he was dead already, or was going to kill him when he woke. But something about that smile had made him believe she was real. Really real. Maybe because he couldn't have dreamed a smile so uncomplicated; he'd never seen its like. Not on Shepard's face. She was just _happy._ To see _him._

He gestured vaguely at his damaged right side. "I almost died. No one said it, but it'd been close. Too close. And instead of worrying or fretting or… coddling, she only took one look at me and said 'Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly. Slap some face paint on there and no one'll even notice.' It was exactly the right thing. Anything else would've been trite." He reached up, touching the scarred side of his face lightly. "She's the… she's the best friend I've got."

"Then… Sorry. I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I have to ask. Why aren't you with her?"

"Because," he replied softly, "she had a fall to take, and she wouldn't let me take it with her."

"You love her."

"She's Shepard," he said, repeating the phrase he'd used with his mother.

Solana nodded as if this explained something—also like their mother had done—and folded her hands in her lap. Garrus knew he could have left it then, could have picked up his datapad and attempted to return to work—though he knew the message could've been written in krogan or salarian or badly-translated hanar for all the sense it'd make to him now—and the conversation would be over, but he didn't. He took note of his sister's posture, the subtle grammar of her body language, and he hesitated a moment longer before asking, "And you? What's keeping you and Naxus apart?"

She didn't speak, didn't immediately rise and walk away as he half-expected, but the lines of her body tightened, stiffened.

"Come on, Sol. I could hand your words back to you. About being glad someone knows? About being able to talk if you want to?"

"Is it… is it obvious?"

"Dad says you've been friends for a long time."

This made her look at him, and there was no mistaking the flash of panic that briefly contorted her features. "Did he?"

"You can hardly blame me for being curious. He was the first person you thought of contacting when you heard the galaxy was going to hell. Maybe I wasn't Dad, but I wasn't a _bad_ detective. It was hardly a leap to deduce he means something to you."

"He's—he has connections. He's almost a general. He's respected. I thought—I knew he could help."

"Right," Garrus replied. "And while that all makes sense when taken at face value, I may be oblivious about who's looking at me, but you're my little sister. You'd better believe I see who's looking at _you_."

She shook her head, like she didn't believe him, and he didn't miss the way her hands twisted and clenched before she flattened them into stillness again. "We _are_ friends," she said.

"Believe it or not, I may have some small amount of experience in the 'friends who decide being more than friends is on the table' arena. If you promise to leave off using words like intercourse and embracing eternity, I will even share the bounty of my knowledge."

She didn't quite laugh, but her mandibles twitched just enough to indicate amusement and not irritation.

More gently, he said, "You didn't answer my question. Why aren't you together?"

"It's… complicated."

"Yeah, that's not going to fly. At least you're the same _species._ Hell, Dad seems to like him, even."

Solana sighed. "It's not Dad. And it's not Naxus. It's… you know how it is."

"I know how _what_ is?"

She glared at him as if to accuse him of being deliberately obtuse. "The Hierarchy. At one time we were on the same trajectory. Now he's about to be named one of the military's youngest generals, and I'm… I don't know what I am."

"You're a Vakarian," Garrus retorted.

"A Vakarian with nothing to show for herself. And you've seen the house. We're not what we once were."

"Bullshit, Solana."

She blinked at his expletive and tilted her head in a query.

"I don't mean the house. Or the money. Hell, I don't even mean the name, even though it still carries weight enough that Dad didn't have to wait three months for an audience with the primarch. So your path changed. Does Naxus care? Did he call something off when you decided to stay and look after Mom?"

"There was nothing to—"

"Not buying it."

She uttered a brief, frustrated growl. "He wanted to do things right. Go through the Registers, make sure things were good with Dad. And Mom, of course, but everyone knows Dad's the stickler. Didn't want me to lose face. Back then… back then I think I looked better in the Registers than he did. His branch of the family hadn't made much of themselves, so they had the Fedorian name but none of the… prestige, I guess. For lack of a better term."

Garrus nodded as if this made perfect sense. "So, you sent him packing and told him to come back when he'd ascended a few tiers."

"Of course I didn't."

He gazed at her with slack-mandibled mock confusion. "Oh, but when things changed he turned around and did that to you? Sounds like he's not worthy of your time, Sol. I could probably take him in a fight. Or from a distance. If I still had my scope mod."

She straightened defiantly and turned on him, heat in her gaze. Which was exactly what he _wanted._ "That's not what happened. He _never_… Mom got sick and I turned my back on everything else. I thought he deserved better than what I could offer. I… we… Corpalis can take a long time."

"So he said he didn't want to wait for you."

"_Stop it_," she snapped. "He said he'd wait—he wanted to help—and I said I couldn't accept that. He had too much going for him. So I broke things off before they went too far and he went off to serve in the Citadel Fleet. He was part of the 24th, you know. First to engage. It's… that's why I thought he'd believe you. He was there. He saw what he was fighting. I don't think he ever believed it was just the geth."

"And now?"

"It's complicated," she repeated. "Things ended before we told anyone, and now his parents have arranged a match. It's… appropriate. It would be wrong to interfere with it. Selfish."

Garrus swallowed his groan and instead said, "You want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly," she replied, "but somehow I don't think you care."

"You did make me sit through a recitation of every known euphemism for sex just now. I'd say you owe me a solid five minutes of listening to brotherly advice."

She grimaced.

"Having to sell a few family heirlooms or take a break from a promising career didn't unmake you who you are. You're appropriate. And you care for each other. The Reapers could come next week or next month. They could come _tomorrow._ And they could end _everything_. Don't waste the time you have. If you find something… you should hold on to it, that's all I'm saying. There are no guarantees. Be selfish. Just a bit."

"You are a terrible turian."

He shrugged and huffed a laugh. "So I keep saying. Been hanging around humans too long."

She sighed again, but her posture was easier, more relaxed. "But maybe you're not wrong."

"Of course I'm not wrong," he replied with as much cockiness as he could muster.

Solana made a face. "You're insufferable, G."

"That too."

She pushed herself to her feet and gave herself a little shake, like a dreamer waking from a deep sleep. "Thanks," she said. "For this, but mostly for talking to me about… her. I think I understand now. I know why. And I'll be okay when you go."

He dipped his head, brushing this off. Going anywhere had never seemed farther away. "You tell him if he hurts you he'll have me to contend with. And I'm a really good shot."

Solana reached down and touched his forehead lightly. It was one of their mother's gestures. Garrus felt his gut twist with longing. And sorrow. And regret. Always regret. "Same," she said.

#

**_Message sent: 1 SEP 86_**

_Is it just me, or are the rumbles from the Hegemony getting quieter? We could use her out here, Anderson. I'm doing my best, but no one gives crowd-stirring speech like Shepard does. Should've heard the one she used on the quarians. You'd've been proud. GV_

**_Message received: 2 SEP 86_**

_Wish I had an answer for you, son. My inquiries seem to get lost on the way to the people who need to give answers to them. Funny how that works. DA_

**_Message sent: 2 SEP 86_**

_Except by funny you mean frustrating as hell? GV_

**_Message received: 2 SEP 86_**

_Couldn't have said it better myself. DA_

#

The armor was extravagant. Top quality. Better kinetic shields than anything Garrus had ever owned. Fit like a second set of plates. Even the color was right—exactly what he might've chosen for himself.

He couldn't help wondering where the money had come from, and decided it might be time to reroute some of the funds Shepard had left in his account, once she knew (one she'd _decided_) everyone was departing. At the time, he'd thought it amusing how she was willing to give the Alliance her Cerberus ship, but not the remainder of her Cerberus credits. Now he found himself oddly grateful. He swallowed his smile and made a note to contact Liara later. If the Shadow Broker couldn't arrange an untraceable, anonymous deposit, he didn't know who could.

If—_when_; he was a realist—the worst happened, he didn't want his family to be stranded with no recourse because they'd spent the last of their credits on some fancy armor. Still, when he thanked his father, his gratitude was genuine.

"Should've done it sooner," his father said, waving away the thanks, crooking one finger through the hole the gunship had left in his old armor and giving it just enough of a tug Garrus had to take a step or lose his balance. "We should learn from the past, not wear constant reminders of it. Especially in positions of authority. You want them to look at you and see competence, not an illustration of near-failure."

Truer words never spoken. Not quite so easy to put into practice, Garrus found, however. Spirits of the past—of Omega, of Archangel—warred with memories of loss and failure as Garrus settled into his new role. Putting together a squad made him wonder who was the potential Lantar Sidonis. He combed through dossiers, looking for clues, looking for the flaws that would lead to shattering under pressure instead of weathering it, searching desperately for the chink in the armor _before_ it let a bullet through instead of only realizing after what he ought to have known all along.

When thinking like Archangel made him doubt, he tried thinking like Shepard. If she had a Lantar Sidonis in her past, she'd never spoken of it, and her crew would've followed—did follow—her into hell. Maybe the team he was putting together hadn't actually seen the face of their hell, but Garrus had. He knew what he was asking of them. He needed people who'd follow, but not blindly. He needed people who wouldn't break. And if—when—Shepard came to collect him, he needed people who'd get the job done without him around to do their thinking for them.

Here, Naxus was the model Garrus attempted to emulate with his other choices. The young colonel was an invaluable resource. He knew everyone, was well-respected, spoke with authority, but deferred to Garrus without complaint. Garrus saw others following Naxus' example, and slowly, slowly things began to fall into place. Privately, Garrus thought the man would fit in just fine, should Solana come around and actually speak her mind. He already had the family motto down pat. They worked together, took meals together, even sparred together once or twice, and both pretended they didn't know Naxus was in love with Garrus' sister.

Still, it was, as Garrus had told his sister, an uphill battle. He had to beg and plead and make an inarguable case for every resource he wanted, every change he wanted instituted, every line of defense he wanted bolstered. Like C-Sec, he was constantly hampered by the frustration of rules and regulations and red-tape. Like Omega, he conquered it—but through words and examples and carefully constructed plans instead of superior weaponry and poetic justice.

It wasn't quite as satisfying, but it was effective.

And on some days—the good days—he almost believed he might be making a difference.

#

**_Message received: 10 SEP 86_**

_Hey, G. Thought you might find these vids… interesting. Still think they look awfully squishy. Sol_

**_Files attached: , , , , , _**

**_Download files? _**

**_Message sent: 10 SEP 86_**

_I don't want to know how long you spent trolling the extranet for those. And I can't believe you sent me porn. At work._

**_Message received: 10 SEP 86_**

_Best sister ever, or best sister ever?_

**_Message sent: 10 SEP 86_**

_I worry about you, Sol._

**_Files downloaded._**

#

A month after he began his work with his unimaginatively named Reaper Task Force, Garrus was surprised to see his sister walk in with Naxus one morning. The young colonel only gave him a brief nod of greeting before hurrying off to his station, but Solana lingered, looking about with wide eyes and an amused expression.

"You going to tell me you just happened to run into each other outside?" Garrus asked, voice dripping skepticism.

Solana didn't duck her head or scold him or even reach out to give him one of her shoulder-punches. She only laughed, and when she was finished the smile remained on her face, too happy for the eve of war, and so happy Garrus felt his own optimism rising to match hers. "Sure thing," she said lightly, amusement still the dominant tone, "we ran into each other outside. Talked about the weather. Good times all around." Narrowing her eyes, she added, "Tease me and I'll forward copies of all those files I sent you to every workstation here. From your address."

Garrus lifted his hands wide in surrender. "Not a word. On my honor."

She huffed a derisive snort. "What honor? You'll have to do better than that."

He grinned. "Fine, you want a tour?"

"That's more like it. Letting me in on the top secret mission for a change?"

"Not so secret," he replied. "But classified all over the place. So, if you could keep it to yourself, that would be good. It definitely can't go further than your boyfriend."

She gave him an arch look. "Porn on the workstations, G. It'll wreak havoc on your productivity."

"You play awfully dirty, Sol."

On an exaggerated leer, she replied, "Sure do. Like that one where they were doing—I don't even know. Isn't that dangerous? I mean… _teeth_. And I thought dextros and levos had to be more careful with—"

"I can have you classified as a national security threat."

"Not before I out you as a human-loving freak of nature."

He glowered at her, checking to make certain they hadn't been overheard. "Time and place, Sol. Time and place."

She lifted her omni-tool. "I have _such_ a nifty program on this thing. Scrambles feeds, kills bugs, keeps private conversations private. Yours for the low, low price of not teasing your sister, but letting her tease you as much as she wants."

"Ouch."

She grinned.

"So, other than talking weather with my de facto second in command, what _are_ you doing here?"

"Can't it just be a friendly visit?"

"It can," Garrus replied. "Not sure I believe it, but it can."

She nodded, shifting uneasily, though her smile remained. "Let's call it that, then. Show me what's keeping you busy these days."

He did. She trailed him like a silent spirit, an observant shadow. Every once in a while he'd look back and see her watching him carefully, with much the same expression he imagined he wore when he was watching Shepard's fish swim lazily around their tank.

He was showing her the various alterations he'd made to emergency protocol when they were interrupted by a lieutenant waving a datapad and wearing a flustered, unhappy expression. Garrus knew the man—Laetus was a solid soldier, came highly recommended and highly decorated, and was one of the most frustrating individuals on his team. He almost suspected the man of being on the payroll of someone determined to undermine Garrus' authority. But he was damned good with numbers, and Garrus had yet to meet a logistician half as brilliant.

Laetus didn't so much as glance at Solana; Garrus heard her breathy laugh at the exclusion. He thrust the datapad out, and stopped just a hair short of hitting Garrus with it. "Are you—sir, these are _highly unusual_ tactics."

"Reapers are a highly unusual enemy, lieutenant. As we've discussed. At length."

If the expression on Laetus' face wasn't an outright scowl, it was damned-near close. As close as a lifetime military man would let himself get in the presence of a superior, in any case. Though Garrus had his doubts as to whether the man did, in fact, consider him a superior at all. If given an option, Laetus usually chose to pass his messages through Naxus. He must be annoyed indeed to skip the middleman on this one. "So you say. Sir."

To his credit, Garrus didn't return the man's grimace. He didn't even sink into the contempt he wished to. "Your enemy is smarter than you. It's faster, stronger, and one—just one—nearly destroyed the Citadel, with all its fleets and all its power. What do _you_ do, lieutenant?"

"General Thaxen held against a stronger, faster, more heavily armed force. _And_ he followed protocol. We're turian. We haven't maintained the top military in the galaxy by changing our minds at every turn or throwing away good tactics for no reason. Protocol exists for a reason. Because it works."

Garrus barked a laugh, taking the lieutenant aback. The outthrust datapad wavered. "Don't know if I want to commend you for speaking up, or dress you down for the lack of respect, Laetus. How about we split the difference? You tell me what protocol you'd like to follow, and I'll explain why it won't work. Unless it will. And then I'll take your recommendations under advisement. I'll trade you patience for your willingness to accept I may actually know something about what I'm talking about here. And you lose the damned attitude, or you're off my team. Understood?"

"Sir," Laetus replied, with the good grace to look ashamed of his earlier slip. "Understood, sir."

By the time Laetus finally left, datapad in hand and, Garrus hoped, new commitment to the cause in place (tales of the Collector pods and the ease with which Sovereign had cut through the Citadel's fleets went a long way), he'd almost forgotten his sister. He turned to find her gazing at him with open astonishment, and when she spoke there was no mistaking the surprise in in her tone. "You're good at this."

Dryly, he said, "You doubted me?"

Her mandibles flared wide in a grin. "Of course I did." Sobering, she added, "I… always wondered. I know you and Dad never saw eye to eye where the C-Sec rulebook was concerned, and I guess… I guess I always thought that made you—"

"Incompetent?" Garrus supplied.

She had the decency to look mildly ashamed. "Yeah. Sorry. It's just… people don't usually run from things they're good at, you know?"

"Mmm," he said. "And that's why you've been so studiously ignoring the calls from Armax Arsenal?"

She blinked at him. "How did you even—"

"Please," he murmured with a smirk. "You think you're the only one who knows how to hack an account, Sol?"

Shaking her head, mandibles slack, she said, "Not possible."

Full of mock-sympathy, he said, "Practically in my sleep. How _does_ it feel to be beaten at your own game?"

"Like I'm going to release the porn."

He'd always admired the way Shepard fixed someone with a steady, unnerving gaze when she wanted something they didn't want to give. Garrus tried it. After a minute, Solana began to squirm. He flexed his mandibles in a slow smile. "I'm calling your bluff."

"You win this time," she said on a laugh. "But revenge will be sweet, Garrus Vakarian. Mark my words. Someday, sometime, when you're least expecting it…"

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "I'm shaking. Look at me."

She tagged along for the rest of the day, even going so far as to offer a few valuable suggestions about possible modifications to their anti-materiel armaments. "I wonder," she said thoughtfully, peering down at the workstation, "whether a tactical cloak could be modified to hide ordinance on the ground. If you could hook it into a power source…"

Garrus didn't miss the fond glance Naxus sent her way as Solana mumbled happily to herself, lost in a fog of inspiration. She, however, seemed oblivious, pulling up her omni-tool interface to tap out notes for herself. Garrus shot the man a _what can you do?_ kind of look. The corporal was too stoic to falter under his gaze. He only nodded once, crisply, and turned back to his work.

Sometimes it could be that easy, understanding.

After a solid five minutes of watching his sister mutter and type, Garrus finally said, "You going to sleep here? Because I'm headed home."

He realized he even meant it. The word home.

He wondered when it had happened.

Solana, heedless of his momentary paralysis, startled, and the orange light of her omni-tool went out abruptly. "How long was I—"

"Hours," he said gravely, swallowing his own feelings and masking them with insolence. "People were taking bets."

It was enough to make her look for a clock, and when she saw the time, she scowled at him.

"Easy target," he said. "Walked into it. But it _is_ time to go. You coming?"

"I, uh—"

"Have to go talk about the weather?"

"Something like that." Her deep, steadying breath was enough to stop him in his tracks, and when he turned to face her he was startled to see her looking abruptly nervous, each hand curled around the opposite elbow. Her mandibles twitched in subtle agitation. "Look," she said, brusque but not quite curt, "I'm probably never going to say this again, so listen closely. You were right. About Naxus. So. Thanks."

Garrus lifted his own omni-tool. "Good thing I was recording. Saved for posterity. Solana Vakarian to her elder brother: You were right."

She punched him lightly. Lightly enough he knew she was saying _thanks_. And maybe even _love you, you big idiot._ "Bastard."

"Yeah, you too, Solana. You too."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other before adding, "Look, I… we missed a lot of gift-giving occasions, and I… may have felt slightly bad for lifting your mods, so I… there's a present in your room. I didn't want to tinker with the Incisor, and I know you said you liked a single-shot weapon better but there's no way I could get my hands on something like the Widow, so I had to make due with a Mantis. They're good, the M-92s, especially once I've had my way with them and—"

"Sol," he said. "Rambling. Dangerously close to making no sense. I know a salarian you'd love, but I do want to get out of here before it's time to come back again in the morning."

Her laugh emerged weak and nervous. "Right. I am. Okay. Two things. I… well, I left you the schematics for my tactical cloak. I know it's never been your thing, but if what you say about your commander's true, I thought maybe she'd… but maybe not. It's just a prototype."

Touched, Garrus covered his emotion with a grin. "I'm sure she'll love it. If they ever come to their senses and let her see tech again."

Solana ducked her head and shifted her shoulders in an uneasy shrug. "Only if you think it would be helpful."

"Solana Vakarian, humble. No, almost _speechless._ Filed under: things her brother never thought he'd see. I should probably be recording this, too."

It made her scowl at him, but at least she no longer looked uncomfortable.

"The other thing? You said two."

The discomfort came back full force as she swiped a hand over her head and shrugged again. Or twitched. He thought it was a shrug. Then, in a rush, she said, "I made you a gun. Well. Modded you a gun. It's at home. Thought it might be nice to have something to match the new gear. I've been tinkering with a scope that'll see through poor conditions—you know, fog or smoke—and I think I've got it sorted. Added some great biometric targeting features, even though, yes, yes, I know you're the greatest shot that ever took aim. And this piercing mod! G, you should see the piercing mod! Obviously I couldn't test it, but I'm pretty sure it'd send a bullet clear through a krogan."

"Thanks, Sol," he said.

She shrugged away his gratitude, dipping her head. "It was nothing."

"Right," he said, "and you were talking to Naxus about the weather."

She chuckled. "Exactly."

#

**_Message sent: 16 SEP 86_**

_Attaching a gift, courtesy of my sister. Don't know that you'll be able to get it to her, but if you can… GV_

**_Message received: 18 SEP 86_**

_ Damn. Not my field, but even I can see how sophisticated those schematics are. I'll do my best to see something rigged up for her. Fingers crossed, son. They've been letting her talk. I almost believe they've been listening. Next step is letting her do what she's best at. Want to see her adequately prepared when that time comes. DA_

**_Message sent: 18 SEP 86_**

_Best news I've heard in months, sir. GV_

**_Message received: 27 SEP 86_**

_Looks like it's finally going to happen, Vakarian. Finally. Date's been set. Far as I can make out, this thing's a formality now. Don't know if they'll give her a ship right out of the gate, but the hearing should go some way toward clearing her name. DA_

**_Message sent: 27 SEP 86_**

_Tell her 'bad penny.' She'll know what it means. GV_

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

#

The call to mobilize came nearly as soon as the first images of Taetrus flooded the comms.

After being routed at Taetrus, the military was falling back to Palaven, but the primarch wanted tactical teams on Menae, on Digeris, on Nanus, on Pheiros, on Oma Ker.

Garrus had seen it coming, of course. He'd been the one to suggest multiple bases as failsafes in the event of full-scale attack. It had taken every ounce of persuasion he possessed to convince the primarch such an extravagance of resources was necessary, but in the end he'd won and all had teams placed, along with supplies and a series of orders dependent on possible outcomes. If one fell, the others could keep things running. Menae was the best defended. And if the worst happened—_Spirits_, he hoped the worst didn't happen—and Palaven fell, Menae would take over as central command.

And if Menae fell…

It wouldn't. It couldn't. He already knew he had a good team on the ground there—generals didn't come better than Corinthus and Victus. Menae would hold, just as it had always done.

He hesitated once his bags were packed, his Solana-improved rifle broken down and snapped to his new armor, his duffel slung over one shoulder. No one would look at him askance for carrying a weapon now.

Taking in the room, he tried to commit it to memory. Maybe it wasn't _precisely_ home—not really, not any more—but it was history, and history was important too.

History was worth remembering.

Especially now.

"The transport's here," came his father's unexpected voice. Garrus turned. His dad stood silhouetted in the doorway. Only the slight hunch in his shoulders, as though the weight of his cowl was starting to wear him down, indicated his weariness. When he took a step into the light, however, he looked as able and competent and commanding as he'd ever done. "Your sister says to be careful. In language much more colorful than mine." He paused. "Don't hold it against her that she's not here. She doesn't like goodbyes. She never has."

"Neither do I."

His dad's smile was brief and sad. "I hope you planned on leaving a note, at least."

Garrus chuckled in response, gesturing with his omni-tool arm. "I was going to send a message. But I see you anticipated me."

"Once a cop, always a cop. Always knew when a perp was going to try and run."

Garrus sighed. "I could stay—"

"No," his father interrupted. "They need you, son. You're the only one who's seen what they're up against."

"One's not the same as a fleet. I don't know how much help I'm going to be. You don't need to be any kind of expert to give the 'shoot and keep shooting and try not to get shot' order."

His dad laughed. "Even if you've embellished a little, Garrus, I think from what you've told me you're pretty effective with a gun in your hand. Don't sell yourself short."

Garrus swallowed, straightening to attention. "I had a good teacher."

"You did. But I think that's only the smallest part of it." He paused, then reached out and settled a hand on Garrus' shoulder. Garrus tried not to imagine _lasts_. "When you see her, you tell the human Spe—you tell Commander Shepard there are some, at least, who remain grateful she even tried."

"You could come. You both could come. You have to know they'll hit here first, and it won't be death you have to fear."

"No, son. This is my place. And your sister won't go anywhere as long as Naxus is stationed here. We both know that."

"Then I should have—"

His father shook his head. "You've left the right man for the job. And you're sending the right man to Menae. We'll be careful."

"And if things… look, Dad, if they start to evacuate, promise me you'll go."

"Garrus…"

"Please," Garrus said. Begged. He wasn't embarrassed by the falter in his voice. He remembered—so clearly, so very clearly—the girl in the pod on the Collector ship, disintegrating. He didn't want to consider—couldn't bear imagining—the same happening to his father, his sister. Stoicism be damned. "_Please_, Dad."

It took a great deal to startle his father, but somehow the application of the word _please_ did it. Maybe Garrus had never used it before. It was entirely possible. A fraction of his dad's reserve ebbed, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. Garrus knew it was the closest he was going to get to a promise, and it was enough. He knew his father well enough to know it was enough.

"And Dad—"

He was silenced by the look in his father's eyes. "Try not to wait so long before your next visit. Your sister worries."

"Will you tell her—"

His dad raised a hand and shook his head firmly. "Tell her yourself. Later. After."

Garrus nodded. "Give her the Incisor." He swept his own hand out, indicating the gun in its case. Inside it was immaculately cleaned. He'd already calibrated it for someone of his sister's height and weight and tendency to shoot just a little to the left. "Tell her to keep it safe for me."

His father inclined his head. "I'm glad you came, son. Wish circumstances could have been different, but—"

"Dad," Garrus said. "I know you don't like goodbyes, either."

He hugged his father then, and was relieved when the older man's arms wrapped tight around him. Garrus knew this, too, was a thing they'd never speak of again.

But for once it was fine.

Sometimes words weren't necessary.

#

**_Message received: 3 OCT 86_**

_I know it'll be tough for you, but don't do anything stupid. Breathe. Shoot straight and aim for the head. S._

**_Message sent: 3 OCT 86_**

_I love you too, Solana. G._

#

This time as he left Palaven, Garrus stood in the cockpit and silently watched his homeworld grow smaller, trying to commit every detail to memory. The sprawl of Cipritine faded into a distant blur, followed by the continent, and then it was clouds, nothing but clouds, and he could see the stars again.

No longer the brash youth who'd gone to C-Sec, or even the vigilante with a score to settle by any means necessary who'd run from the boy he'd been, Garrus watched the first home he'd known—first and latest—fall away and he told himself it wasn't the last time he'd see it.

He didn't quite believe it.

#

**_Message sent: 4 OCT 86_**

_Turians under Reaper attack. We're holding, but barely. What's your status, Anderson? GV_

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**


	4. Chapter 4

**_This is an emergency broadcast. Enemy ships spotted near Trebia Relay. Attack imminent. Arm yourselves. This is not a test. Stand by for further instruction. This is an emergency broadcast. Enemy ships spotted near Trebia Relay. Attack imminent. Arm yourselves. This is not a test. Stand by for further instruction. This is an emergency broadcast. Enemy ships spotted near Trebia Relay. Attack imminent. Arm yourselves. This is not a test. Stand by for further instruction. This is an emer—_**

_#_

"Sir? Advisor Vakarian, sir?"

Garrus didn't look up. His map was a mess—the red of battles lost across the planet and battles in the process of being lost across the galaxy; dark spots where whole colonies, whole planets, whole _systems_ had gone silent—and he didn't know what to do about it. In the brief moments when they were able to have their comms up and running, reports came in faster than he could keep up. None of them good. He'd done what he could, organized what he could, bolstered defenses and shored up tactics where he could, and it was still falling apart. The Reapers weren't playing by any known set of rules, and they were using tactics no organic would ever have attempted. They could move without supply lines, without rest, evidently without refueling. Even thinking fast, Garrus simply couldn't anticipate what they might do next. No one could. Turian forces were three moves behind, defending tooth and talon in a battle that always, always meant the difference between survival and obliteration.

Maybe it was foolish, maybe she'd be just as helpless as the rest of them, but he couldn't help thinking Shepard might've known how to turn the fight around to bring it _to_ the invading forces instead of constantly running, running, and leaving the slow behind to die.

She'd done the impossible before. It wasn't like he believed in her without evidence to back that conviction up.

But Shepard wasn't here. His messages to Anderson—the few he'd managed to send; the ones that hadn't bounced back or remained undeliverable in his outbox—went unanswered. Maybe she was out there. Hell, maybe she was already on her way, but he had a planet to mourn and a moon to save and no time to waste on maybes and uncertain variables. He had a map. And determination. And for now that had to be enough.

It had begun with Taetrus. For the turians, at least. The batarians had taken the first blow, and even that slight advance warning had been enough to start the mobilization of the turian armada. Garrus had prepared them well enough for that. But while the ships gathered around Palaven, waiting for the inevitable strike, the Reapers took another route. A crueler one. No one had anticipated an attack against Taetrus. In the scheme of things, it was a small world, a mere colony. Small, but oh, it hurt. Which was, Garrus privately believed, one of the oddities of the Reapers. For beings claiming to be unconcerned with the matters of organics, except to destroy them (to help them _ascend_), they showed an alarming ability to strike where it most hurt. Not physically, but psychologically. Emotionally, even. Even Harbinger's taunts had so often seemed designed to dig at Shepard where they might do the most damage. When it wasn't going off about bacteria and ascendance and assuming direct control, of course.

_To the observant, a weakness is an opportunity._ And the Reapers knew how to observe. They knew how to make the most of an opportunity. The terrorist attack on Taetrus, so fresh and so devastating, had been an open wound, but broadcasting the second fall of Taetrus to the entirety of turian space? It was almost like they enjoyed it.

Wherever they'd got their observations, they'd missed something important. Taetrus hurt. But the blow had only galvanized them, uniting every turian in the galaxy against those that would dare kick at the fallen just as they were attempting to right themselves again.

That, Garrus thought, was a hell of a Spirit. Not one _he'd_ want to pit himself against.

The fall of Taetrus had led to the Battle of Palaven and Coronati's Fifteen-Minute Plan. There hadn't been time to bring Garrus in on that one, so what he knew he'd learned after the fact. It'd been a hell of a risk. Broke most of the rules poor Laetus had been so keen on obeying. Clever. Garrus certainly had to grant Coronati that. But still not enough. Oh, they'd managed to take some of the Reaper capital ships; that counted for something. But the turian losses were staggering, and the red on Garrus' map kept spreading. So did the dark.

With as much contact as the disruptions to the comm buoys would allow, Garrus was trying to adapt, trying to guide the turian defense as best he knew how. He'd been observing, too, after all. The Reapers were cocky. They believed themselves invincible. But Garrus had been there when Sovereign fell. They had flaws. They could be overcome.

The galaxy would lose millions, billions, but if anyone survived, _anyone_, he'd count it a win. Every turian would.

Which left him here, at his map, determined to hold Menae. They had to. Palaven was burning beneath them—_don't think about it, don't think about them, Dad will make sure they get out, don't think about how you haven't heard from them in days, don't think about_—and if Menae fell?

Menae couldn't fall.

Menae could not fall.

"Sir?"

"Spit it out, Laetus," he barked, stealing one of Shepard's phrases ("Spit _what_ out?" he'd asked the first time he'd heard her use it. "Words, dumb-ass," she'd replied, grinning. "What do you think?") to cover his own wandering attention. He couldn't afford to let his attention wander. Not now. Not with so much at stake.

The lieutenant looked momentarily baffled. Then he blinked, puffed up his chest ever so slightly and said, "Ahh, we've… sir, communications are down all over the place and the buoys are going down again almost as soon as we get them up, but we're finally picking up chatter on Systems Alliance channels. Or. Uh, we were. Sir."

Suddenly he understood why all the 'sir's. His gut twisted. He tried not to let it show on his face. The map could wait. For a minute. Its sea of red and dark would still be waiting for him once he heard what he didn't want to hear. "Report."

The soldier didn't squirm. His voice was crisp around the pauses, and if a faint tremor altered his subharmonics, Garrus pretended not to notice. He'd known they were coming and the Reapers still scared him shitless. It was a wonder the uninitiated could keep it together at all. Especially the uninitiated who'd held to their doubts until it was almost too late. "They've lost Earth, sir."

Four words. Four words and he was standing in his apartment in the Citadel years ago now, while Anderson said _I thought you should hear it from me. _A shiver of cold ran the length of his spine, but Garrus held himself straight, stiff, and allowed no hint of his feelings to pass over his face or lurk in his body language. The Turian Hierarchy's Expert Reaper Advisor couldn't fall to pieces because of one unsubstantiated report. Garrus made himself nod once, sharply. Perfectly composed.

_Try not to die this time,_ he hadn't said.

"Status of the Alliance fleets?" he asked. Solana—_don't think about it, don't think about them, they'll get out, they'll be fine_—would have known what his subvocals were saying, but the lieutenant only took a breath and launched into the last known coordinates of the major Alliance players. Garrus took it in distantly, already calculating, reducing lives to numbers and numbers to pieces on his map. With their own homeworld under attack, he knew they couldn't count on aid from humanity. No last minute miracles this time. It wasn't going to be like looking down his scope and seeing Shepard shooting her way across the bridge on Omega.

Only then did he admit to himself how much he'd been hoping for just such a reprieve.

An alarming ability to strike where it hurt.

This time the damned Reapers didn't even know how accurate their aim had been.

When the soldier was finished his report, Garrus nodded again.

He turned back to his map. Tapped the panel that brought up the Sol system.

Earth burned red. Red as Palaven, as Taetrus, as Khar'Shan.

One talon hovered over the command to turn the planet dark.

He couldn't press it.

_Come on, Shepard. Do what you do best. Prove them all wrong._

And in the meantime, Menae couldn't fall.

He wasn't going to let it.

#

**_Message sent: 7 OCT 86_**

_Anderson?_

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

**_Message sent: 7 OCT 86_**

_Shepard?_

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

**_Message sent: 8 OCT 86_**

_Dammit, Shepard, tell me you got out._

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

**_Message sent: 9 OCT 86_**

_They're saying comms are blown across the galaxy. They're saying Earth got hit hard. They're saying Vancouver's a smoldering wreck, few survivors, better not to hope. Screw that, Shepard. You'd better be looking me up._

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

**_Message sent: 10 OCT 86_**

_Well, you bastards, I bet you wish you'd listened now. _

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender._**

#

When Garrus' commlink crackled after hours of the capricious radio silence of downed communications, and General Corinthus greeted him with, "Vakarian, sir, do you read? We've got Commander Shepard and her team here, looking for the primarch," Garrus nearly dropped his weapon. Luckily, he was alone, with only a far-off pair of husks to witness his embarrassing lack of composure, and within moments they were obliterated and his secret was safe.

"Say again?" Garrus replied, trusting the static of their unreliable connection to mask the upwelling of emotion. "Thought I heard Commander Shepard's on the ground? The Alliance's Commander Shepard?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"And… sorry, you say she's here for the primarch? This about the summit?"

"Councilor Sparatus sent her, but Primarch Fedorian's shuttle was shot down little over an hour ago. I've been trying to raise Palaven Command to find her the next in line. Thought I should give you a sitrep, sir."

In this new reality, where no one—not even the highly organized, highly regimented Turian Hierarchy—could possibly maintain an accurate death toll, Garrus felt only the briefest pang for Fedorian's loss. Another good man down. Another offense Garrus hoped to make the Reapers pay for one day. He resisted the instinct to look skyward, where Palaven fought for its life and Cipritine burned brighter than any of the spots on Garrus' situation map back at base. He tried not to think of his father, his sister. Apart from one broken message from Naxus at Palaven Command letting him know they hadn't been lost in the initial onslaught of destruction and death—_three million lost the first day,_ his brain filled in traitorously before he could stop it, _five the second_—it had been days since he heard anything of either.

Days was a long time when the galaxy was dying faster than casualty lists could keep up.

He took a deep breath. Cold as it was, for now he had to keep his thoughts on the living.

Especially if the living was someone he'd been led to believe was lost. "Is the commander with you now, General? Can you patch her through?"

He'd believe it when he spoke to her. Like Omega all over again. It wasn't enough to look down his scope and see her N7 insignia. It wasn't enough to hear her name spoken. He needed to hear her voice for himself, needed to hear her speak his name in that way only she could.

If it came with one of her secret smiles, all the better.

"Negative, sir. She and her team are attempting to get the comm tower functional." Corinthus gave a low chuckle, though Garrus could tell mirth was not the driving force behind it. "Hell, sir, with things the way they are, you might be closer to the primarch's seat than we realize."

Garrus huffed an uncomfortable laugh. No mirth in this, either. "Take that back, Corinthus, you bastard."

The general chuckled again. "Fair enough, Vakarian. Not sure anyone wants that job right now. Still, you've worked with the commander. With what you've said, figured you'd want to know. Any chance you could head back to base? You'll make a better liaison than I."

Garrus almost laughed again. Instead, he shot three more encroaching hostiles. His aim didn't waver. The gun Solana'd modded for him was faultless. He spared a thought—a hopeful thought, almost a prayer—for her every time he pulled the trigger. Three pulpy heads exploded. _Be okay. Be okay. Be alive._ "On my way," he said, because somehow he thought a whoop of joy and _just try and stop me_ might convey a certain lack of professional decorum.

Of course, his initial enthusiasm was tempered somewhat by the realization that he had not spoken to Shepard—not a word, not a message, nothing but Anderson's oblique references—for six months. He'd asked her once whether she wanted something closer to home, and though she'd said no _then_, it was by no means a guarantee that _being_ closer to home hadn't made the prospect more palatable.

_Professional_, he thought. _We're in a damned warzone._

Still, no matter what their—_the_—future held, he couldn't wait to see her. She was still his best damned friend in the galaxy. That wasn't going to change. He'd just play it cool. He could do that. Hell, it was what he did best.

"Then let me fill you in, sir," General Corinthus said, and though the comms were disrupted twice along the way, he managed.

Even with the planet above him—_home_—burning; even with the horrifying knowledge that he did not know where his family was, or if they were even alive for him to worry about; even with a sea of husks between him and base camp, Garrus began to feel something he hadn't felt since the hapless Lieutenant Laetus said _they've lost Earth, sir._

Hope. The crazy kind. Shepard's favorite brand.

#

**_Message sent: 15 OCT 86_**

_Come on, Sol. If anyone can hack a comm channel it's you. If this is your sweet revenge for that time I called your bluff, it's horrible. Let me know you're okay._

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender_**

#

Her face told him she was surprised to see him, but happy. It was subtle, a twitch of her expressive brows, the brief curve of her full lips, the way she blinked too rapidly and his visor alerted him to a sudden increase in her heart-rate. On another face, at a different time, one without Reapers shrieking in the distance and the smell of death and ash and weaponry filling the air, it would have been a grin, he thought. Maybe even a full-fledged laugh. Perhaps accompanied by an embrace.

Her voice, when she said his name, when she said, "You're alive," told him she still didn't quite believe the story her eyes were telling her. All the sharpness she'd used when speaking to Corinthus was gone, replaced by wonder, and a touch of incredulity.

He understood completely. The armor was right, red N7 bright against black ablative ceramic. Her cheeks were thinner and her hair longer. His eyes said _Shepard_, but his mind said _maybe you're imagining things. You've been awake and under pressure for a long, long time._

She started to move her hand, hesitated, and then thrust her arm up decisively. He met her halfway, and didn't realize the full extent of his relief until he felt his fingers close around hers. Real. Alive. Before he could think better of it, he brought his left hand up to cover both of theirs, turning a professional greeting into one ever so slightly more intimate. The turians, unused to the human gesture, wouldn't know what it meant, but Shepard's team noticed. He saw the burly marine's gaze linger, the movement of his brows much more than a twitch, and Liara didn't turn away quickly enough to hide her smile.

"I'm hard to kill," he said, not wanting to let go but aware the moment had already lasted too long. "You should know that."

Her eyes never left his as she said, "I thought you'd be on Palaven," and he heard _I thought you were dead_. His own reply was a little rushed, a little unpolished, and said _I thought you were dead too. _The gaze, like the handshake, lasted too long, but then Shepard gave her head a little shake and introduced her lieutenant, whose furrowed eyebrows still hadn't quite returned to neutral.

Just as they finished discussing the merits of Victus as new primarch, momentary peace was disrupted by Joker's transmission from the _Normandy _and incoming Harvester. Shepard turned to him with her same old smile and said, "Coming, Garrus?"

And because he'd been devising contingency plans for when he inevitably left Menae since the moment Corinthus came over the comm and said _we've got Commander Shepard and her team here_, he replied instantly, "Are you kidding? I'm right behind you."

Into hell. Just like old times.

Falling into place at Shepard's six, right where he belonged, he already felt more like himself than he had in months.

#

**_Message sent: 15 OCT 86_**

_Bad news about Fedorian, Dad. He was a good man. I'm sorry._

_Looks like I'm headed back to the _Normandy_ with Adrien Victus. He's primarch now. Hope he won't hold Mom's skota incident against me._

_You'd better have evacuated._

_Please, Dad. Get me a message. Keep trying._

**_Undeliverable message returned to sender_**

#

They were silent in the shuttle. He'd never been more aware of silence, or of the many other eyes all around them. Her knee knocked his. A moment later the shuttle shifted and he bumped his shoulder against hers. Accidentally, of course. James Vega's brow furrowed again, but Shepard only fixed her lieutenant with a mild look and said, "Something on your mind, James?"

"No, ma'am," he said, ducking his head to stare with forced concentration at the floor between his feet.

Shepard tilted a half-smile at Garrus and said, "So. When I said 'try not to be up to your neck in angry mercs' I suppose I should have specified that being up to your neck in angry husks was also an undesirable outcome."

"It's all in the details, Shepard."

"Isn't it just," she remarked. "Look, Garrus—"

"Commander Shepard," said Victus. "I wonder if I might have a moment of your time before we rendezvous with your ship. We have logistics to discuss."

Garrus was the only one near enough to hear her soft exhale of a sigh, but when she turned to give the primarch her attention, no hint of frustration or annoyance at the interruption remained. She was entirely _Commander Shepard_, model of professionalism and undivided attention. "I'm all yours, Primarch."

_Later_, Garrus thought. Vega was squinting at him again. _Better to have that conversation later._

While Shepard talked numbers and deployment and strategy with Victus, Garrus kept one ear on their conversation in case he was required to give input later, and spent the rest of the time staring, unblinking, at the bulky marine, just to see him squirm under the attention.

He had to hand it to the kid; he held his own.

As soon as the Kodiak doors opened, Shepard leapt out into the hold—different, Garrus noted, much more like the hold of the SR-1 even if it was bigger and brighter. He almost expected to see a Mako lurking in the shadows. Instead of a tank, however, a woman Garrus didn't recognize stood near, and she handed over a stack of datapads as soon as Shepard extended her hand. Whatever she saw on the top one brought a frown to Shepard's lips and a crease to her brow.

Garrus expected he'd see a lot of that. Good news was the rarest of commodities these days. Eezo had nothing on it.

"Primarch," Shepard said, shifting the datapads to the crook of her arm and rearranging her features back into a more neutral expression, hiding her concern behind a faint, vague smile, and her most professional mask, "Specialist Traynor will see you and your staff settled. Please, if there's anything the _Normandy_ can do, let her know and she'll do her utmost to make it happen." Her gaze shifted momentarily to Garrus', and he knew her next words were intended for him and Victus both. "I've got to update the Council, see whether we can get the asari to join us, and deal with whatever craziness Joker messaged me about, but I'll check in with you later. Make yourselves at home."

By the time Garrus nodded, she was already gone.

Garrus left Victus in the war room, poring over situation maps—as red as the ones he'd left behind on Menae, he noted—and headed for the familiarity of the battery. Most of the faces Garrus saw were new, and though he was no more a part of the Alliance than of Cerberus, it was somehow still a relief to see the _Normandy _once more filled with blue uniforms instead of black and white and yellow ones.

The main battery looked different, of course. He'd expected that from Anderson's messages. In some ways it was an entirely new ship, a strange hybrid of the SR-1 and the SR-2. Cerberus' bright lights and extravagant finishes were gone, replaced by gritty, serviceable Alliance standards. Garrus ran his hand along the console.

"Welcome back, Garrus," EDI said.

"EDI," he greeted, surprised how glad he was to hear her voice. "Not sure I was expecting you. Thought you might've had trouble when they overhauled the ship. The Alliance isn't known for its friendly relationship with artificial intelligence."

EDI sounded pleased with herself when she replied, "The retrofit team believed I was a VI. I did not correct this assumption."

He chuckled. "I bet you didn't."

"Also, I was able to retain a number of files, unbeknownst to the retrofit crew."

This time Garrus laughed outright. "I bet you were."

"I have returned your personal files to the directory where you left them. Also, I have done what I can to return the Thanix to the condition you left it, but it is not running at optimal efficiency. I have begun your usual diagnostic. It will be complete in fifteen minutes."

"Someday you'll have to meet my sister," Garrus said. "She'd like you."

"Then I am sure I would… like her too."

Gripping the edge of the console, Garrus bowed his head. He'd been running so long—juggling responsibilities and pushing down emotion and trying to keep things together not just for himself but for everyone relying on him—that the sudden fist of terror and loss hit him hard. _Come on, G,_ he imagined Solana chiding. _Pull yourself together. Now's not the time._

_Come on yourself, Sol. Now's _never_ going to be the time._

"Garrus," EDI said, "I surmise from your sudden silence and the jump in your heart-rate that you are concerned for the family you just mentioned. Although I cannot guarantee its efficacy, given the current state of communications relays galaxy-wide, I can set a program to attempt a connection. I require only the frequencies used by their communication devices."

"Thanks, EDI," he said softly, raising his head to stare hard at the gun. It was something concrete to do. Maximize efficiency. Prepare for inevitable combat. Fix something small because he couldn't begin to touch all the big things that were wrong. "Wouldn't want to take up valuable resources, though. Not for personal matters. Too much at stake."

"It is no trouble. The _Normandy_'s efficiency will not be compromised. I will alert you if contact is made."

He swallowed hard and nodded, even though of course EDI wasn't a physical presence in the room to see it. "Thanks," he repeated.

"I am… sorry, Garrus," she said. And the weird thing was, he believed her. He believed that in whatever strange way an artificial intelligence looked at the organic world of life and death and love and loss around her, she was, in fact, _sorry. _Before he could say anything, though, EDI added, as crisp as ever, "Diagnostic 53% complete, and I believe Shepard is on her way to the main battery, now that she has finished in the AI core."

Garrus straightened and rolled his shoulders, once more pushing the "In the AI core? Problems?"

"No, I do not think so. I have obtained a new platform. A… body."

"A—a _what_? _Now_ you're joking."

"No, Garrus. That would not be funny."

"A _body_."

EDI managed to sound vaguely amused. "It will be on the bridge, if you wish to meet it later. In the meantime, Primarch Victus would like a word. Patching him through and logging you out, Garrus."

"Don't think this is the last you'll hear about this, EDI," Garrus warned, as the AI's pleasant voice was replaced by the primarch talking strategy and numbers and the grim business of war.

His visor alerted him to Shepard's arrival, but Garrus ignored the streaming input of new information, focusing instead on his conversation with Victus, waiting for her to make the first move.

Also, he supposed, just like old times.

He'd already decided he wasn't going to… wait. They both had too many responsibilities, too much going on, to waste time dancing around the issue. If she wanted an out, he'd give her one, and if she took it, he'd be professional. Completely and utterly professional.

_And heartbroken,_ his sister's voice said. _Don't forget heartbroken._

_You be quiet._

He imagined Solana laughing—a sad laugh; he could hear it clear as anything—and knew she probably had the right of it.

Not that he'd ever, _ever_ let Shepard see it, if she turned him away now.

He'd be whatever she needed him to be. He was good at that, too.

He kept his cool while Shepard shifted slightly from foot to foot and they traded inane conversation about the necessity of giant guns in the battle to come. It bought him time to _really_ look at her. It was one thing to take a quick survey on the battlefield in order to make sure all limbs were attached and no blood was dripping from open wounds, and something else entirely to see her here, in what he thought of as her native environment. She'd taken the time to change out of her armor, and scrub the worst of the dirt and sweat from her skin. The Cerberus officer's uniform had been replaced by Alliance dress blues. She'd always looked vaguely uncomfortable in black and white; blue suited her much better. The color brought out the undertone of green in her grey eyes, but also highlighted the purple smudges of exhaustion beneath them.

Even tired, even worn, even with red-rimmed eyes and cheeks paler and far more gaunt than they'd been six months earlier, he still thought she was beautiful.

And he knew, for all his deflections and all his denials, his damned sister had been right all along.

He wanted to ask Shepard about the asari Councilor, about what she intended as far as the krogan were concerned, about what he could do to help. He knew he couldn't lift the whole burden of responsibility from her shoulders, but he'd be damned if he was going to let her suffer under the weight alone.

He just had to get this… other thing out of the way first. Protocol on reunions. It would have sounded clever, if his subharmonics weren't giving him away at every warble. He followed it up with a deflective joke about his scars, and was relieved to see her smile. Hell. There was even a laugh.

_Dismissively? In a gotta-let-you-down-easy-big-guy kind of way? Or is it fond? In the right light it could look fond._

He didn't realize how much he'd been dreading a rejection until it didn't come, until it was all her "I haven't forgotten our time together" and him stammering about research (_again_, he groaned inwardly, even as his mouth kept running away without his brain, _again with the research, because babbling about watching vids wasn't embarrassing enough the first time you have to do it again?_) and Shepard stopping him with a kiss.

He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be happy. And just for a moment, with the scent of her overwhelming him and the feel of her soft lips against his scarred mandible and her hands reaching for his, there it was. Happiness. Like a single point of light in the darkness. Like something lost found again. Like taking a breath when you'd been certain of dying.

Maybe she didn't know what the war would bring—who did? But it was enough. When they started speaking of the Reapers and the invasion and his preparations, they were themselves again: Shepard and Vakarian. Better, even, he hoped. Stronger. The best. They'd have to be the best.

"Shepard?" he asked, "Did Anderson…?"

She tilted her head, obviously confused. "He's heading up the resistance on Earth."

Relief made him sigh. "Best man for the job."

Her smile was fond and sad all at the same time. "My thoughts exactly. Still don't like it. Damned near impossible to get messages through."

"If you can… the next time you speak to him, tell him thanks, would you? From me."

"Thank Anderson? From you? _Why_?"

"He… did me a favor once. That's all. Kind of thing that deserves gratitude. Was starting to think I might not get the chance."

"Sure," she said, brows still furrowed. She didn't press, but the look she leveled his way asked questions he didn't want to answer. "I'll tell him. This about the new tactical cloak? He did sort of hint it might've originated with you. As much as he was ever able to let me know, anyway. He knew I wanted to keep you all away from scrutiny."

Garrus nodded, "Yeah," he said. "The tactical cloak. I notice you're using it."

"_Using_ it," she scoffed. "This model puts my old one to shame, and I'm not afraid to admit it, even though the old one was my design. I suppose I have your task force to thank for the schematics?"

"Yeah," he said after too long a pause. "Something like that. I'll, uh, pass along your approval."

Shepard watched him carefully—too carefully—for too long, but instead of pushing, she only changed the subject, asking him about his task force and his family. The latter made his stomach drop, and he didn't linger on it. He almost spoke of his mother, then, but she already had the weight of the world—of the galaxy—on her shoulders, and he didn't want to add to the sorrow she carried. Someday, maybe, if they ever had the time to find out what normal looked like for them, he'd tell her. They'd trade stories the way they traded teasing barbs and headshot tallies.

Friends. Families. Histories.

But for now they had this, troops and deployments, Spectre and Reaper Advisor. She had smiles for him she gave no one else, and all the research in the world couldn't have prepared him for the strange surge of emotion such intimacy stirred in him.

"Oh, you'll never guess," she said, pausing as she turned toward the door. By the amusement in her voice he knew it was something good and not another lost planet or break in the front lines. "I went on a hunt to find my model ships, since for some reason they'd been left in strange places from one end of the _Normandy_ to the other. And while I was down in the hold below engineering? I found my damned hamster."

"Odysseus decided the _Normandy_ was home after all?"

She chuckled. "Or he wasn't ready to leave the excitement and head back to his boring hamster life? Either way. Safe and sound. No harm done. You should… come visit him later."

The pause was almost undetectable, and just enough to make his mandibles flutter into a brief smile.

"Definitely," he said. "Wouldn't want him to think he was alone in all of this."

"Yeah," she said, eyes shining in a way that might only have been the new, darker light of the _Normandy_, or that might have been the sheen of tears. "Wouldn't want that."

"Because he isn't," Garrus insisted. "Not now and not ever. I hope he knows that."

And as Shepard sauntered out of the battery, casting a last warm smile over her shoulder, Garrus let himself hope, just for a moment. For victory. For peace. For things he would never have admitted to hoping for.

For the opportunity to visit a damned hamster later.

First things first, though. The Thanix was a mess.

The old saying was wrong after all, he thought, bringing up the results of the diagnostic EDI had begun for him. Sometimes? Sometimes you could come home again.

Hell, sometimes you had to leave and come back to know it was ever home at all.

#

**_Message received: 15 OCT 86_**

_Odysseus misses you. Dinner?_

**_Message sent: 15 OCT 86_**

_Can it wait for a minute? I'm in the middle of—no. Can't even joke about it. Be right up._


End file.
